Whisper
by Aalon
Summary: This is the third story in the Magic AU, and picks up a few hours after the end of The Long Game. If you haven't read those stories, please do so first. Otherwise, this won't make a lot of sense. What does one do when one's reality has been shaken to the core?
1. Chapter 1

**Whisper: Chapter 1**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 **A/N:** This story begins in the wee hours of the morning after the conclusion of The Long Game. At the end of that story, Richard Castle and Kate Beckett were sitting down in a bar at the Hamptons in the evening simply trying to regroup. Alexis was out on the beach getting 'lessons' from Elena Markov (whatever that happens to mean), while Jackson Hunt has left for who knows where. You may want to review that story again to catch up, as this story begins where that left off, some four plus hours later, still out at the Hamptons. This will be a relatively short story taking us into the Thanksgiving holiday.

There won't be a lot of action – physically - but this story is necessary for where I want to take this AU next. The Long Game set up a couple of scenarios that cannot be ignored and need to be dealt with before we continue.

 _ **Early Friday Morning just after Midnight, March 23, 2012 – 12:21 a.m. – at Castle's Hamptons Home**_

The cab pulls into Richard Castle's driveway at his Hampton's getaway home, some twenty or so minutes after midnight. Well, the term 'getaway home' isn't entirely accurate. For the time being, this beach house _is_ Richard Castle's home – his only home, his new permanent residence.

Last month, the now-deceased Scott Dunn took care of that, blowing his city loft to smithereens and beyond – leveling the entire building. And that destruction was the least of Dunn's atrocities.

A family dead, two cops dead, a cabbie dead. Alexis kidnapped. FBI profiler Jordan Shaw's daughter taken as well. Castle's mom. Beckett's dad. Both taken. All touched – horribly – by the monster that was Scott Dunn.

And along the way, some curious developments have assaulted the once exciting but relatively safe world of Richard Castle. A heartbreaking lie that has rocked him, from the woman of his dreams. A lie of omission of his own exposed. A dead-and-buried friend resurrected, only to betray Castle and those he loves.

He was shot. Sniper style. That on the steps of the courthouse as they were leading him back to jail.

Yes, he was in jail.

Oh, and he has met a father he never thought he would see, and a sister he never knew existed. Okay, technically she is his half-sister, but he's not quibbling.

So, yes, Richard Castle has lived a lifetime in just under a month. And he reacts the way any mature but rocked-to-the-core man reacts. He is out to live the set-up to a perfect joke.

 _A man walks into a bar with a beautiful woman . . ._

Castle steps – or half stumbles, to be more accurate – out of the cab, and offers a fifty dollar bill to the cabbie, as Kate gets out of the cab on the passenger side.

"Keep the change," he tells the grateful, long-time New Yorker.

"Are you sure, bud?" the cabbie asks, his eyes hopeful.

"You got us home safe and sound," Castle smiles, "which I promise you I would not have been able to do tonight."

"This morning" the cabbie corrects him.

"See what I mean?" Castle smiles, as the Cabbie nods his head, chuckling, and begins to pull away. Castle walks slowly to the walkway leading to the front door, where Kate waits patiently – nervously.

It's been a good night. For the first time in . . . well, ever, he and his favorite detective have taken the opportunity to talk. Really talk. Not about a case. Not about a perp. Not about the precinct, or the latest Nikki Heat novel. They've done something absolutely essential for a healthy, long-term relationship to survive: They talked about nothing. It was an opportunity to find out whether or not there really is something here beyond innuendo, flirts, and lust-filled thoughts.

Both have been pleasantly surprised. It had turned into an interesting night.

 _ **A few hours ago at a local bar and grille at the Hamptons**_

"Ground rules," Castle had said suddenly after a few minutes of awkward silence when they first sat down and ordered drinks.

"You're kidding, Castle" Kate has wondered, incredulously.

"Well, the silence here is absolutely deafening, detective," he had responded.

And in a moment of pure God-does-have-a-sense-of-humor irony, both had day-dreamed similar thoughts.

" _Will I ever be something other than 'detective' to him?" Kate had wondered._

" _Will I ever be Rick to her? Or am I doomed to be Castle forever?" he had wondered._

Fortunately, the notion of ground rules proved to be more than a conversation starter. It took the edge off of things, and turned the night into what it should have been all along. Drinks and snacks between two very good friends.

Friends searching for something more.

Friends wanting more, but missing that critical ingredient necessary for a good, slow, sweet baking.

Trust.

Neither trusts the other right now – and for good reason. After a year of lies, of omissions, of secrets – well, yeah, the loud silence was the comfortable alternative. So ground rules helped.

"No work talk, no book talk," Castle had begun. "I don't know about you, but I need a break from all of that."

"Sounds good," an almost relieved Kate Beckett replies with a wistful smile, taking a sip of the Moscato that Karen the waitress has just brought to the table. She watches as Castle takes a long drag on the spiced rum and coke concoction.

"Never heard of Sailor Jerry," she muses to him.

"Then you're not much of a drinker, detective," he smiles in return, then continues. "And if you don't mind, no talk about anything from the past month or so. This guy here," he says, wiggling the glass in his hands, "is to help forget all that."

"It won't help," she warns him. She's trying to keep things light. And yes, she enjoys a drink as much as the next guy or girl. But not to forget. It doesn't work. She almost mentions her dad, but stops. As it turns out, her companion is astute enough to see her train of thought.

"You're probably right," he gives her. "But he tastes pretty good. Is it okay if I just enjoy the taste for a bit?"

"You and me both, Castle," she replies with a crooked smile.

Yeah . . . awkward. Both realize it. But what did they expect?

"Why is this so hard?" he asks.

"What?"

"This," he replies. "We've known each other for four years. We've been through life and death situations. We've helped each other. We've hurt each other. And I've . . ."

He stops short of completing his sentence, instead going in a safer direction.

"You'd think we'd have something to talk about," he says talking another protective gulp.

She begins to open her mouth, probably to argue that last point, he figures. But he's not ready to talk about that either. Kind of stupid of him to bring it up in the first place.

"This place," he begins, changing the subject, giving them a topic. "This place has been here for over forty years. Mother actually knows the owner. I had to chuckle when you pulled us into the parking lot. It's where I would have brought us."

"See," she smiles, her nerves settling just a bit more. "We think alike even for something as simple as which bar to go to."

"I guess we're already good at starting over," he half chuckles, taking another sip. From there, the conversation had turned to topics that neither of them had ever even considered broaching with the other.

Kate's college years. Ex-boyfriends. Rebelling against Mom and Dad who were on the other side of the country.

Castle's years in private school on the east coast. Rambunctious actions that got him suspended, expelled, repeat.

She lost her virginity as a high school senior. He lost his . . . a little earlier.

They were surprised to learn – after counting on blurred fingers – that they have slept with the same number of partners. That little gem had reduced them both into a fit of giggles.

His first story was a ghost story about a spy, written in high school for a contest. She won a poetry contest with a short poem about . . . you guessed it, ghosts.

They laughed to discover that she loves beer and bikes. He hates beer, and loves sports cars.

Alexis never came up. Nor did Jim Beckett. Nor did Roy Montgomery or Jackson Hunt, or Elena Markov. Even Espo and Ryan ended up – intentionally or unintentionally – off limits. Their conversation ranged from child years in church, to baptism, to school years and pranks and dates. They laughed over the first time either smoked a joint. And all the while, Karen continued to bring drink after drink, first with grilled wings, then chips, then more drinks.

About half an hour ago, they laughed as both had the state of mind to realize they needed a cab, but neither could figure out how to get a cab. Fortunately, Karen had taken care of that as well.

 _ **Back at Castle's Hampton's Home, just after Midnight, March 23, 2012 – 12:24 a.m.**_

Castle and Kate walk gingerly and quietly up the steps inside the home, careful not to wake anyone. The house is dark, everyone long asleep. She walks in front of him, and he tries – somewhat unsuccessfully – to pry his eyes away from the swaying and swinging derriere that glides up the stairs in front of him. He blames it on Sailor Jerry.

They reach the landing when he points down the hall to the right.

"Your room is down the hall, last door on the left" he tells her. "I know you didn't bring anything to sleep in –"

"Who says I sleep in anything?" she replies, her words just slightly slurring.

"Touche," he agrees. He thinks about pushing the topic, but decides against it. It's been a good night. Far better than he could have imagined, all things considered. There's no need to push it. He suspect there will be a repeat of this evening. Perhaps many repeats.

"There are toiletries in there," he tells her. "You mentioned that you aren't going into work until Tuesday?" he reminds her.

"Yes, Gates gave me a couple of days off," she responds, still grateful for the time off.

"Good," he continues. "Maybe you and Mother and Alexis can go into town in the morning. There are couple of really nice boutique shops. I'm sure Mother can help you find something," he says with a roll of the eyes.

"Okay," she replies, surprising herself with how easily she has agreed to this. To staying here. No strings attached. To shopping with his mother. Probably a few strings come with that one.

She surprises him with a kiss on the cheek. A kiss that lingers just a second longer than either expect. She breaks away, walking down the hall to her room.

"Goodnight, Castle," she tells him softly as she walks away, and he smiles with a simple wave.

"Goodnight, detective," he tells her, and once again, similar thoughts pound both the writer and the cop.

" _Still the detective," she muses to herself._

" _Still on a last-name basis," he notices._

They walk to their respective rooms, neither looking back until they both get to their doors. Both risk a side glance back to each other, forcing embarrassed smiles as each quickly slips into their respective rooms. Now this is getting ridiculous. They both feel like high school freshmen getting caught taking that extra glance. It hits both of them – right about the same time – that perhaps that isn't a bad thing. Perhaps they deserve a little junior high / high school excitement. Perhaps a little novelty-of-youth will do them both some good.

She closes the door behind her, and leans heavily against the solid wooden door, her head back and eyes closed, unable to contain the smile that grows broadly. She whispers a soft but audible 'thank you' to the heavens, and is startled by a young voice in the darkness.

"Thank you for what, detective?" Alexis asks her, sitting on her bed.

Meanwhile, Richard Castle closes the door behind him, smiling a bit more nervously. He wants to trust her. He really does. He trusts that woman with his life. With his daughter.

His heart? That's another matter. He turns on the lights and is met with a similar surprise to his companion down the hall.

"Hello, brother," Elena smiles at him, sitting cross-legged on the floor at the foot of his bed. She wears jeans and one of his dress shirts. Again.

In both rooms, Richard Castle and Kate Beckett have the exact, identical thought.

"I guess tonight is not over yet," both of them think silently to themselves.


	2. Chapter 2

**Whisper: Chapter 2**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **Just after Midnight, Friday, March 23, 2012 – 12:27 a.m. – in Castle's bedroom at his Hamptons Home**_

As he stands just inside his bedroom here at the beach house, in front of his closed door, Richard Castle is trying very hard – unsuccessfully, but earnestly nonetheless – to do the impossible.

To sober up on the spot.

After a month of continual terror, after half-staggering into his home with Kate Beckett, after a surprising evening of casual comfort with a certain detective, he has been looking forward to some well-deserved shut eye. One glance at the lithe figure sitting on the floor at the foot of his bed tells him that there will be some delay in his desire to go horizontal.

"Hey Elena," he manages, drawing a chuckle from the woman on the floor. "Couldn't sleep?"

"Not yet," she tells him, patting the piece of floor beside her, encouraging him to sit. He glances at the spot, then around the room before settling in next to her on the floor.

"You know, I _do_ have furniture in this room," he tells her with a sheepish grin.

"Ah, yes," she smiles in return. "However, I do not plan on being here long enough to have need of your furniture this night."

He considers correcting her, reminding her that it is now morning, officially, but tends to believe that her reaction may not be as jovial as the cab drivers' reaction a few minutes ago.

"What's up, then?" he asks. "Did you and Alexis have a good night?"

"That's why I am here," she tells him, and suddenly his attempts at soberness are now having decidedly more success. She feels him tense up next to her, knowing how protective her new-found brother is for his daughter. And with good reason.

"What happened? Is she all right?" he asks, now trying to stand up, ready to go to his daughter's room.

"She is fine, Richard," Elena tells him, grabbing his hand, squeezing, keeping him sitting on the floor next to her. He acquiesces, relaxing again, his back easing into its former place against foot of his bed. She doesn't release his hand, however.

"She is in a new place for her, I suspect," Elena continues. "We had a nice evening. A good first session, a good –"

"What do you mean by 'first session'?" he asks, interrupting.

Elena leans her head against his shoulder, relaxing into him. The simple movement from this complex woman startles him. She feels him tense, then smiles as she feels him relax just as quickly.

"Allow me this discretion, brother," she asks. "There are things that – at least for now – need to stay between Alexis and I, including certain steps I am taking to help her deal psychologically with the past month. Please just . . . well, I suppose it is not fair to ask, but –"

"Trust you?" he completes the sentence for her.

"Yes," she asks.

He considers things for a few brief seconds. He doesn't like secrets, now more than ever. He is living the consequences of lies, of omissions, of secrets. Yet he is – even now as he is more than slightly inebriated – equally aware of the fact that none of this can be laid at the feet of the woman sitting next to him. Can he really hold her responsible for the actions of consequences he now faces as a result of other people?

No, he decides, he cannot.

"Okay," he finally tells her. "You have given me no reason not to trust you."

"Thank you," she replies softly. Her head remains nestled into his shoulder, as she continues.

"She is concerned . . . no . . . afraid is the more accurate word," she tells him. "She is afraid that I will be leaving very soon."

"Why would that concern her?" he asks. "I mean, no disrespect Elena, but –"

"What she has been through, Richard, what she now attempts to recover from . . . it is something that you do not . . . you _cannot_ understand."

"I'm her father, Elena. Of course I understand," he argues.

"Do you really, brother?" she challenges. "Do you really understand what it is like to be a teenager, a young girl who has grown up in the protective cocoon of her father? You did not know your father until days ago. She has had you her entire life. Yet do you really understand what it is like to be a young girl and be taken? Be kidnapped? Have you really, Richard, allowed your mind to wander into the deep places where Mr. Scott Dunn took your daughter?"

His wide-eyed facial response gives her the answer she already knew. He can't go there. He just can't. He would lose his sanity.

"No, of course you haven't," she continues. "You think about it for just the briefest instant, and your sensibilities mercifully slap you back to the reality that is more comfortable for you. So you never go to that dark room with your daughter, where the breath of a monster is on her face. You never go to that place where your daughter is tied to that chair, his lips searching her neck, her face - his hands fondling secret places."

Richard Castle's body explodes, as he stumbles forward from a sitting position, ready to rush to his daughter's room. Even sober, he is no match – physically – for the woman next to him. In his current state, even less so. Elena easily pins him, holding him in place on the floor. He is prone now, face first with her straddling his back on the floor. She leans down to the back of his head, her lips are on his ear, her voice sings in his head, her words violently rock places in his mind.

"You never take that step into the room with her, Richard, where the terror overshadows her, where her mind begs for death, where she actually prays for God to take her."

She listens to her brother's cries beneath her – loud and long – as he struggles beneath her, the memories of a nice and warm evening with the detective now nothing more than castaway thoughts on an island left long ago. She continues restraining him to the floor as she takes him to the depths he has avoided these past three to four weeks.

"You never go to into the closet with her, while she tries to comfort a younger child, while she tells that child lies so that the little one can sleep, can hope, can live another hour."

He still cries, his whimpers rising and falling though now, a doppler bouncing against the walls of his bedroom, but his strength is waning. She needs less pressure to hold him in place.

"You never go to that place with her, where she found the strength to stand in place of her young friend, taking the brunt of madness conceived in the monster's mind," she tells him, her voice now lower, nothing more than a whisper on the air that seeps into his soul.

"So no, Richard, you cannot understand what she is going through," she continues. "But _I_ can. Yes, I can. Because I have been there. I have been in the blackness. I have been beneath the groping hands. I have been beneath the lips dropping spittle. My heart has been broken as I cried out for my father, for my mother, for my God, for anyone to help me."

She turns him over, and her heart momentarily goes out to the tear-stained face, the red-rimmed eyes that stare back at her. No matter, he must hear this. She will not hold this from him. If he really wants to understand, if he really wants to step into the darkness with his daughter, then he will hear this. She senses the fight has left him – momentarily. She knows it will return. She lays next to him, her hand again tightly intertwined with his. Holding him in place.

"What I am doing with her, _for_ her, I will share with you, Richard. I swear this to you," she continues. "But not now, not tonight. For now, it is a privacy between . . . between two daughters who share a tragedy . . . who share . . . an uncommon walk through this life. Just know that I care only about her recovery, her return to the light, to the mindset that she once had."

He stares at the ceiling, his hand loosening his grip on hers. She immediately tightens it again.

"Is that even possible?" he asks, his voice low, haggard and defeated.

"Unlikely," she admits. "But possible. But she will never get there with her father so defeated, so beaten. I tell you this tonight, so that tomorrow – in the morning – you can find your strength again. So that _your_ strength can become her strength, _your_ hope can become her hope."

"It sounds like you really do understand," he says after a few seconds of contemplation.

"Of course I do," she tells him. "I have walked the road she now travels. I have been on that path, and I know how deeply the rocks cut into your feet. I know how the road looks daunting, how it appears to go on forever. And ever. And then beyond even that."

"Is this why you stayed, Elena?" he asks, wiping his eyes with his free hand. "For her?"

"Yes," she answers without hesitation. "For her. For my niece. And for her father, who I have only recently met. For her father, who already means a great deal to me."

His response is simply a squeezing of the hand. He holds his eyes shut as tightly as possible. He is trying to will those images of a damaged daughter out of his mind, while at the same time trying to accept the images his sister has given him. They are quiet for a moment.

"Are you okay, Richard?" she asks.

"I'm getting there, yes," he replies, his voice strengthening. She can only smile as she loosens her grip on his hand.

"That is good," she tells him, "because I am very tired." And with that, within seconds of her words, Richard Castle's eyes flash open, his head snaps quickly to the right as he stares at his newly-found younger sister . . . who somehow is already fast asleep.

 _ **At the same time, just after Midnight – in the guest bedroom of Richard Castle's Hamptons Home**_

"Is everything okay, Alexis?" Kate asks. It's been a far better night than she allowed her mind to anticipate. It is not lost on her that perhaps that is going to be a key to success, to happiness with her favorite author. Tonight – or last night rather, as it is – she and Castle just allowed things to flow. Their conversation was a slow-moving river, flowing gently downstream. No rapids. No dangerous breaking rocks. No life-threatening drop over the falls ahead. Just an easy evening, where they have learned more about each other without asking those hard questions.

And now, she fears his daughter – the most important person in his life, without a doubt – can stir the waters, change the current, can disrupt the flow.

"Thank you for what, detective?" Castle's daughter asks again, ignoring the question that answered a question.

Kate considers her response for a moment and then it hits her. This is what she does, all too often. A simple question is asked. Yet she deliberates on her answer, when a truthful answer is all that is needed.

"I had a great time with your dad," she finally tells the younger woman. "I was just kind of thanking the heavens for . . . for something your dad and I haven't ever done before."

"What is that?" Alexis asks. In the dim light, it is almost as if Kate sees Alexis for the first time since the young woman was released from her short but traumatic captivity. She can't help but notice the familiar red hair, now styled in a very unfamiliar fashion, short and cropped as best it can be. She notices the hollowness in the eyes, where barely a flicker of the old joy that used to dance and sparkle there.

"Relax and just enjoy time together," she acknowledges. "But if you don't mind, I think we should be talking about you, Alexis. How are _you_ doing?"

"Coping I guess," Alexis replies quickly. Almost too quickly. "At least that's what everyone tells me."

"Who is 'everyone'?" Kate asks her.

"Everyone is everyone," she replies cryptically. "My dad, Grams, Dr. Sumners, pretty much anyone I –"

"Who is Dr. Sumners?" Kate interrupts. "Your therapist, I assume."

"Yeah, that's her," Alexis nods her head. "She's nice enough, I guess."

"Is she helping?" Kate wonders to the young woman.

"Well, like I said, I'm coping, so I guess so," Alexis replies, again too quickly. Her eyes wander away from the gaze Kate gives her. She's hiding something. Kate knows it for certain. She's learned that people who cannot go eye to eye with another person is usually withholding something.

"Can I help you Alexis?" Kate asks. "I mean, you're sitting here in my room in the middle of the night –"

"Morning," Alexis corrects.

"You're just like your father, you know," she tells her with a smile.

"Don't hurt him," the younger Castle tells her suddenly.

"What?" Kate asks, taken aback.

"Don't hurt him anymore," Alexis says, this time for forcibly. "You've done enough, detective. I don't think he can take another heartbreak from you. And I . . . I don't . . ."

Alexis' voice almost breaks as she chooses her words.

"I don't think I am in a position to help him the next time you drop him off a cliff," the younger woman finally gets out, running hands through her short hair.

"Oh Alexis," Kate manages, her eyes now watering. Yeah, it would figure that the younger Castle, her problems notwithstanding, is worried about her father. Hold that thought – not worried about her father in the generic sense, but worried about the woman who she knows holds her father's heart in what have proven – in the past – to be callous and selfish hands.

"Oh Alexis nothing," the young woman fights back. "You weren't there – here – to help him pick up the pieces. To pick up his pieces. You almost shattered him. And for what? Because your old captain talked you into it? Cops, doctors, whoever. They always end up more important than my dad to you. I came to ask you, detective . . ."

Alexis pauses, as she sees the emotion in Kate's eyes. It almost disarms her. Almost. But then the young redhead remembers her father. She remembers continuous evenings on the couch at the loft where she saw those same emotions in her father's eyes. She watched those same emotions spill out of her father's eyes, countless night after night. He didn't think she noticed most of the time. How could she not?

Alexis Castle cannot do much right now for herself. She's a mess, she's shattered. She knows this, and she knows there is no quick fix – if there is a fix at all. She controls so little of her life now, and this after being a bit of a control freak her entire life up to this point. But there is one thing she can influence, one thing she can exert some control over.

Her dad's happiness, and this woman standing in front of her who has constantly demonstrated the ability to snag that happiness out of the air time and time again.

She won't see him shattered again – not if she can help it.

"I came to ask you . . . Kate . . . please," Alexis pleads. "Don't do this again. There are other men to win over out there," she tells her, waving her hand at an imaginary world. "There are other cases to solve out there. Don't pull my Dad back into your world unless you are serious. My . . . my family is hanging here by a thread, detective," she says, reverting back to a more officious tone. "We don't need anyone running around carelessly – or callously – with scissors."

Kate Beckett surprises herself by taking the reproach in the spirit it is given. She knows that Alexis really has nothing against her. She just loves her father. Wouldn't Kate fight for her own father just as fiercely? Of course she would.

She also knows, however, that right now words are cheap. This young woman is damaged goods, emotionally and physically. And her father? He's recovering from a gunshot wound, and a . . . no, scratch that, two . . . shit, actually _three_ betrayals.

She lied to him. For a year. While hinting to him that they could be something more than friends.

Roy Montgomery lied to him, conspired against him. For years. All while pretending to be his friend.

And now his own father, who left a day after he was conceived – he comes back, pretending to protect his son, when his greater mission is to elevate his greatest enemy.

Yeah, Castle is damaged goods right now as well.

"I won't try to convince you tonight . . . right at this moment, Alexis," she begins. "But I promise you, in time – and I don't mean a long time – but in time, you are going to see that my intentions for your dad are true, are pure, and have his best interests at heart. Your dad means a lot to me, Alexis. More than I have ever realized. And yes, it took a whole lot for me to realize this –"

"Like him getting shot," the younger Castle mumbles under her breath. Not low enough though.

"Yeah, like him getting shot," Kate admits. "Like him getting betrayed. By those he thought were closest to him – outside of you. I have my work cut out for me, Alexis. But trust me, I'm up for this."

"Well, I hope he is, too," the young woman comments. "For his sake . . . and mine."

With that, Alexis steps up off the bed, and begins walking toward the bedroom door, now ready to give Kate her privacy. She has waited up, and said her peace.

"Alexis," Kate says, reaching out and stopping the younger woman. Alexis stops next to the detective, who uses her hands to turn the younger woman until they are facing each other.

"Don't believe what I say," Kate tells her. "Not tonight. Don't expect too much or too little. Just give me a chance. That's all I ask. I won't ruin this. I won't ruin your father. And maybe, Alexis . . . maybe in time, I can be there for you."

For just a moment, a bit of life dances behind the eyes of the red-head, but the waltz is short-lived, quickly replaced by the veil that has taken hold over the past month.

"Just don't hurt him," she tells Kate, and walks out of the room, closing the door behind her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Whisper: Chapter 3**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **Friday Morning, March 23, 2012 – 8:33 a.m. – at Richard Castle's Hamptons Home**_

The morning sunlight squeezes through the tiniest of slivers between wooden shutters covering the large window in Richard Castle's bedroom as he slowly begins to stir. Having fallen asleep on the floor with Elena Markov, and in an awkward position at that, he winces immediately as he moves, abruptly reaching for his still painful shoulder while simultaneously wiggling his lips a little. He's not a young spring chicken anymore, and so the mistake of falling asleep on his wooden floor – even on the plush circular rug at the foot of the bed – has taken its brief toll on his aching back. He realizes as he moves that this is something he didn't do all evening. Somehow he managed to fall asleep and it appears he didn't move a muscle for hours while he slept.

He comes completely awake now, his mouth a bit dry and parched from the implosion of alcohol that found its way down his throat last night with Kate.

Kate.

He smiles at the memory of the previous evening, a simple night at the bar. He rubs the sleep from his eyes, and rolls on his good shoulder, pushing himself up from the floor. That's when he notices her. Elena.

Rather, that's when he notices she is gone.

When he drifted away, he was staring – incredulously – at the sleeping form of Elena Markov. Amazingly, the woman had – as crazy as it sounds – it almost appeared as if the woman had _chosen_ to fall asleep at the moment she did, and once that decision was made, she was _gone_ – out – completely asleep. He idly wonders about that ability that he has read about – combat sleep – that allows one to choose when they fall asleep and, amazingly, when they awaken.

He mentally marks it as another little item he needs to ask her about.

He stands, and walks to the window and opens the light beige, beach-toned shutters, allowing the sun to bathe the room in a bright golden tint. He smiles, accepting the warm rays that bring life back to a dry, stone face, and glancing out towards the water, he sees her.

Elena stands – or rather, she alternately crouches, bends – in the sand, doing some form of calisthenics close to the surf. She wears, what looks from this distance, like one of the extra-long t-shirts from his closet . . . and nothing else. He smiles at the eccentricities of this woman. He watches in fascination for a few minutes, captivated by the lithe movements, the smooth, unbroken motions. He watches from a distance the easy, graceful arm motions in perfect concert with leg movements. She is a walking concert that is completely new to him.

He wonders – just for a few seconds, what it would have been like to grow up with a sister. What would life had been like with Hurricane Martha _and_ a baby sister?

Okay, a baby sister who could kick your ass, but still, a baby sister nonetheless.

For an instant, he almost feels the totally unrealistic melancholy at the loss of something – growing up with a sister – that was never his to begin with. Reality quickly takes over, however, as he commits himself to creating new memories, new _family_ memories, with the woman in the distance. The woman who was introduced to him as nothing more than an assassin, an associate of the father he never knew.

Now? Now she is much more – and in such a short amount of time.

She is a sister. She is an aunt. She is a mentor. She is a confidante. She is a friend.

And somehow, even though she has shot him, straddled him with a smothering pillow, and brutally killed countless people . . . somehow he finds himself trusting her.

Turning away from the window, he heads to his bathroom where he washes his face, brushes his teeth, and considers taking a shower for a brief moment. He decides that a quick dip in the heated pool below is a preferable option for now. He changes into swim trunks and throws on a t-shirt, and grabs a large beach towel from his towel rack. He heads down the hallway toward the stairs when he sees his daughter's closed door. The conversation with Elena swirls back into his mind, and his legs develop a mind of their own, taking him to her door.

He knocks twice, three times in cadence, as he always does – as he always has since she was a youngster in elementary school. Having notified her with their distinctive knock, he cracks the door open.

"Pumpkin," he offers in a low voice. "Decent?"

"Yeah Dad, come on in," she tells him, bringing a smile to his face. He walks in just in time to see her shutting her laptop computer. She sits on her large, queen-sized bed, legs crossed, her pillows propped up behind her. For a brief instant, he gets the distinct impression that there is something on her computer that she doesn't want him to see.

Alexis hides very little from her father, so his presence has never caused a laptop to shut, book pages to close, music to be turned off, channels on the television to be changed. So yeah, her shutting her laptop may seem like a natural thing to a casual observer – but for Richard Castle, it is a cautionary tapping on his temple, telling him to take notice.

"Is everything okay?" he asks, deciding for now to ignore the small warnings that light up his radar, nudging his consciousness like a firework show.

"Yeah, Dad, I'm good," she smiles, and the smile seems genuine, he notes. "How are you this morning?"

"Headed for a dip," he tells her, "and then out to the beach."

"To chat with Elena?" she asks.

"You saw her out there, too?" he asks, or rather acknowledges.

"Yeah," she tells him, and the admiration in her eyes is clear to see. Admiration . . . and something else that he can't place just yet. Another little nudge on his consciousness. He knows, he recognizes the small form of hero worship going on between his daughter and her newly-discovered aunt. How could she not, given what she has seen – and heard of – from this warrior woman.

He idly notes that – based upon the conversation last night – that term, 'warrior woman' is unfair. It is accurate in some ways, but woefully inadequate in fully describing his sister. There is a depth to the woman that he is only now discovering. He wonders how much of this depth his daughter has already discovered.

"She's an interesting egg, isn't she?" he asks Alexis, pushing his other thoughts away. He is looking for avenues, for angles to start a conversation with his daughter. Unfortunately – or perhaps fortunately – she is keeping him at bay right now.

"Interesting is . . . an interesting choice of words," she smiles, playing word games with him right now.

"Okay pumpkin, get back to . . . whatever that is you were doing," he tells her, smiling as he points to her laptop.

Bingo!

He sees the quick hint of 'I've been busted guilt' that slides through the young woman's eyes, ever so briefly before she recovers. But not in time. Her dad knows her, and has seen it. To her credit, Alexis realizes that instant when he sees through her. She tries a broader smile to play it off.

"I guess I shouldn't ask what you are doing there," he muses aloud, with a slight twinkle in his eye. He wants her to know that if she chooses not to open up, he is okay with that. For now.

"Not yet, dad, if you don't mind," she admits, and there is a slight plea in her voice. He catches it, and nods mentally.

"Fair enough. Come swim, or eat when you want," he tells her. I'm throwing biscuits in the oven."

With that, he withdraws his head, closing her door, now with a ton more questions than he had only minutes earlier. She's dealing with so much right now. Let her have her moments. Her secrets, as much as he dislikes the notion, might be in place for her protection, as a covering. And yes, while he wants everything in the open now, he also realizes that not all things are about what he wants.

The last year – hell, the last month has proven that out in spades.

Inside the room, the young redhead takes a long, deep breath. Yeah, he caught her. But he doesn't know what she is doing – what she is thinking. She considers her options, and smiles wistfully, wondering exactly what his reaction would be if he did. No matter – yesterday's conversations and session with Elena combined with her discussion with Kate earlier this morning have set the young woman on a course that she is becoming more committed to with each passing moment. And her findings this morning have only strengthened her resolve. She's not thinking just about herself. She's thinking about her family. About her dad as much as herself.

She re-opens her computer and clicks to maximize the browser where she has been running numerous searches this morning. She is researching Greek traditions. Greek relationships. Listening to Elena Markov yesterday, talking with her, she has learned more about the woman, learned things about the woman that she considers highly relevant for herself. She sees the sudden inclusion of the European into their lives, into their homes not as an event of chance. No, she sees Elena as the fates, the universe placing a safety net into her own suddenly tenuous life.

Learning that Elena is half Russian and half Greek has indeed set the young woman on an exploratory journey. Kate Beckett has studied Russian, as she recalls. But Elena Markov _is_ Russian. And Greek, on her father's side. She's not an American of Russian or Greek descent. She is more Greek than American. She is more Russian than American. That means that there is a culture, there is a mindset, a paradigm that Elena lives with that is completely foreign to Alexis Castle . . . and that intrigues the young redhead. No, more than intrigue, it stimulates her. It energizes her. There is a way that Elena Markov deals with things - that Elena _has dealt_ with things - that is highly relevant for the younger Castle.

She thinks of her father briefly again, and rubs her face nervously, her right hand starting at her forehead and rubbing downward until it drops below her chin.

"Please trust me, Dad," she says softly, as she glances at the webpage she has been researching, and scrolls down, re-reading a specific passage. She frowns as she closes the browser. She hates doing what comes to mind next, but she is in protective mode right now, on a journey that she will not be deterred from. A journey that is making more and more sense to her with every thought. And no, she doesn't think her dad will snoop on her computer. That's not the relationship they have. At least not under normal circumstances.

Normal, however, went out the window weeks ago. In its place sits her new reality. Her new normal. _Their_ new normal.

She re-opens the browser and clicks on the upper right icon. Scrolling down the drop down box, she glances back up, towards the door. The door where her father had just been standing. Pursing her lips, she looks down at her screen once more, now briefly unsure of her course of action.

Suddenly, a different thought hits her, and she turns her head toward the left, and stares at the wall, as if she could see through walls. She considers the woman sleeping in the next bedroom, and that is what makes her mind up, finally.

She moves her mouse, and clears her search history.

No, she doesn't think her dad would come snooping. In fact, she knows he won't. Again, that's not their history. He has spent years building a room of trust for her. But she isn't going to take any chances with the detective in the house, sleeping in the room right next to her. While her dad has built years of trust, Kate Beckett has . . . well, she just has not.

"Forgive me, dad," she says silently, as she closes her laptop, and pulls herself out of the bed. As she walks toward her bathroom, she cannot suppress the smile that turns into giggles as she hears the loud male voice beneath her open window scream out "Banzai!" The accompanying splash into the water warms her heart as she steps into the bathroom and closes the door behind her.

 **A/N:** Thanks for the reviews and private notes about this story so far. I hope to post another chapter this evening, but in case I do not – I wish everyone everywhere a Happy Thanksgiving. I don't know how many countries celebrate Thanksgiving, but I do believe that we all would do well to be more grateful, more thankful, despite all that life throws at us. Having just lost the most important man in my life – my dad – I found myself thanking God more and more for my wife, my children, my mom, my friends, my home, my job . . . and yes, for some faceless friends on the internet who I have met through, of all things, writing about Richard freaking Castle. Wow, indeed!


	4. Chapter 4

**Whisper: Chapter 4**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **Friday Morning, March 23, 2012 – 9:27 a.m. – at Richard Castle's Hamptons Home**_

The kitchen smells of homemade biscuits and melted butter and honey, and there are smiles all around as Richard Castle sits with the now four women in his life. He smiles as he considers the new reality that has settled on his home.

His mother sits entertaining the women with some sordid tale of her theatre past, he is certain. The laughs she receives are loud and genuine – further warming his heart. Martha, indeed, has her ways, and regardless of what life throw their way, the woman is a constant.

"A constant something," he murmurs to himself with a chuckle.

Alexis sits on the stool, listening with great attention to Martha's story, which strikes Castle for two reasons. First, the young woman has heard all of Martha's stories, of that he is sure. At least he thinks she has. So why the clear and rapt attention now?

Second, the wide-eyed glances his daughter throws toward Elena that she doesn't even try to hide? Yeah, that's not surprise, but he wonders if he is underestimating – if that is even possible – the influence this new addition to the family is having on his daughter.

Kate Beckett sits next to his daughter, and while the two don't seem chummy by any stretch of the imagination, neither is there the friction he has dreaded. He knows how protective his daughter can be for him. And Kate looks happy. Genuinely happy. It is a look on her that he realizes that he has never really seen. Oh, he has seen the fronts she gives people, he has seen what she allows people to see. But this is different.

And then there is Elena, who stands in the kitchen, leaning against the wall countertop, her legs crossed at the ankles. Her eyes are filled with life and they dance from woman to woman to woman, and Castle senses that those eyes do not miss much. She holds a biscuit in her hand and takes a bite. With the bite, she glances over at her brother, who leans forward on top of the island to her side, and smiles.

A few minutes later and the laughter dies down. The smiles remain, but each falls into their own thoughts. Soon, however, the smile falls from the face of Alexis Castle. It is replaced by a nervous frown. Castle is about to speak when his sister breaks the silence.

"The silence has become a pounding hammer on my ears," Elena smiles, bringing nervous chuckles to the room.

"We call that silence the elephant in the room, Elena," Martha tells her. Martha is slowly but surely warming up to the woman, in no part because of the affection she sees flowing both ways between her granddaughter and this new woman in their home.

"I have _heard_ the term but do not understand," Elena admits.

"It is what we say when there is an obvious truth – something so big, it cannot be ignored. It is visible to everyone in the room – but no one will say a word about it. Everyone is afraid to talk about it," Castle tells her with a knowing smile.

"Some call it the pink elephant in the room," Kate adds, which brings full understanding to their newest guest.

"Ah," Elena nods her head and smiles. "V dome poveshennovo ne govorat o veryovke"

Kate chuckles as she gazes upon the new woman in the house, and nods her head appreciatively.

"So true," she tells Elena, who – with a raised eyebrow – cannot keep the surprise from her face.

"You understand Russian," she says to the detective.

"Very well, actually," Kate replies, taking another bite from her biscuit.

"What does it mean?" Alexis asks, her head pivoting from woman to woman.

"It means – well, the literal translation is, in the house of a hanged man, they mention not the rope," Kate tells her between bites. "It's a bit of a darker metaphor, I grant you, but in ways it is similar," she admits.

"So, let us speak of this giant pink elephant, this rope, yes?" Elena says casually as she swallows a large gulp of orange juice. "Now is as good a time," she continues.

"Well, I will start," Martha tells the group, as she stands and pours herself another glass of champagne.

"A little early, mother?" Castle kids.

"Time's a ticking, Richard," is all she says, with a wave of a hand. "My concern is Jackson. That's what he is calling himself now. I can't say that – from what I understand – that he left on the best of terms with everyone here. Oh, it was friendly, it was cordial, but . . . but –"

"But there was an edge to him," Castle says, finishing her thought. "It is very clear that, family bond aside, he is on one side of the field while we are on the other," he continues. "And you, my beautiful sister, I truly have no idea what side you are on," he admits, giving a long stare to Elena.

"Bracken and my father are aligned together," he says with a shake of his head. "And someday, all of this is going to come to a head. Someday, we are going to be staring at one another from different ends of a barrel, I suspect," he says sadly.

That's not a confrontation he would ever expect to win. If his father is true to his word, he kills his son. If his father somehow backs away, the son kills the father. Either way, it is a lose-lose proposition for Richard Castle, and both he and Martha understand this.

"And that doesn't even begin to talk about what's top of mind for _me_ ," he tells the group, and now his attention is squarely on the beautiful but scarred face of his daughter. Not scarred in the physical sense, save the butchered hair that she gamely has tried to manage. But the life behind her eyes, the joy in the smile, the spark that she carries – all of those are not necessarily gone, but they are greatly diminished. She is a dimly lit bulb, a dirty and cracked mirror. And he has no answer for this.

"How are you really doing, pumpkin?" he asks. He's not going to talk about her sudden desire to hide things from him. He can't – he won't overreact to that. But it is on his mind, yes.

"I'm coping, Dad," she says, using the same term she gave Kate Beckett in the wee hours of the morning earlier today. The same words she has given Dr. Sumners for the past couple of weeks.

"But how can we help?" he asks. "How can _I_ help?"

Alexis is quiet for a few seconds, as she glances at the adults in the room. They mean well. They really do. But only one person in this room really has an inkling of what she is going through, of what she thinks.

"I don't think you can, Dad," she admits with all honesty.

"I'm your dad, pumpkin. You're my daughter. I have to be able to help. That's what –"

"I'm your daughter, yes," she interrupts. "But what else am I? Who am I really? I don't know anymore, Dad. I have these feelings. These . . . these urges."

She can't complete the sentence, the thought, and Kate leans forward, attempting to provide comfort to the younger woman.

"What urges, Alexis?" she asks, and immediately she hears a small, barely audible sound that comes from Elena. Glancing at her, she sees the woman very subtly shake her head.

"You can't understand, detec . . . Kate," Alexis corrects herself. "I barely understand it myself. I don't feel like myself anymore. I feel . . . I feel like shit, actually. I feel betrayed –"

"Betrayed?! By whom?" Martha asks, and she, too, receives a grunt and a glare from the Russian woman.

Alexis stands from the stool, preparing to leave. Bolting has been her answer the past few weeks. With her father. With her doctor. With anyone and everyone poking and prodding and prying – all in the name, of course, of helping her, of assisting her.

"Alexis is afraid," Elena says simply, her eyes now on Alexis. She does not break her gaze on the young woman as she continues.

"She is scared. And she does not know how to deal with this . . . fear."

"But why?" Castle asks. "You are home now, Alexis," he tells her, his eyes pleading to understand what she is thinking.

"You are safe, here," Martha tells her, but even Kate knows that to be untrue. Especially Kate. She has lived a lifetime of people taken from – or killed inside – their homes. She knows safety can be a fleeting friend.

"No she is not safe," Elena corrects Martha. "But that is not the issue here. The issue is her fear."

They are quiet, as another moment of uncomfortable silence lands in the room. Alexis, now standing, turns to leave when Elena's voice stops her cold in her tracks.

"Sit down, little one," Elena tells her, and the force in her voice surprises everyone in the room. She moves from the countertop towards her niece, who now sits with a bowed, beaten head. Castle feels the wetness on his cheek as he surveys his daughter.

As she moves toward Alexis, she pauses and grabs an orange that sits on the counter next to the juicer that Castle has been using to prepare breakfast.

"You Americans have a saying, yes – when you squeeze an orange, you get orange juice," she tells the room. She grabs a sharp knife, and easily cuts the orange in half. She then squeezes the orange, allowing juice to flow into the juicer.

"Why is this true?"

"Because that is what is inside the orange," Alexis comments.

"Yes, because –"

"No!" Elena almost shouts in the kitchen, surprising everyone with the sudden harshness. "There is no 'because'. There is no further discussion needed. Juice comes from an orange because that is what is inside it. You . . . your people in this country always overthink the obvious," she tells them with regret.

She drops the orange onto the island countertop and walks to Alexis, putting her arms around Castle's daughter. She places a soft kiss on her cheek.

"Alexis has been squeezed," she begins. "She has been put under tremendous pressure. What was resting inside her all along is what has come out. Fear. Trepidation."

"But she is back home, safe and –"

"She is back home, but she is still who – and what – she was before her ordeal. Before the pressure was placed on her, the fear was still inside her. Now that it has been let out, it is very, very difficult to put back. There is nothing wrong with young Alexis. She is who – and what – she is. Afraid. Scared."

"That's . . . that's preposterous," Martha argues. She rises to her feet, and walks toward the living room, then returns, then walks back – comically – before returning again. Elena allows her to think it out.

"Feel better?" she asks the family matriarch, but does not wait for her answer.

"Whatever is inside you is what comes out when pressure is applied. Period. Our task now, is to help Alexis deal with what has been inside her all along, and not to pretend that all is well just because she is back home," Elena tells the group. She sees the confusion, and smiles.

"Richard, please hand me your wallet," she asks of her brother.

"Well, hell, that didn't take long, another woman asking for my wallet," he grumbles amiably, offering a wink to Elena. She smiles in return, as she pulls out a one hundred dollar bill. She smiles at the bill, rubbing it between her fingers.

"You live well, brother," she says with a smirk, filing this away for further ribbing of her brother.

"Seconds ago," she continues, "this was just a simple piece of colored paper with intricate writings, hiding out of sight."

She looks at Alexis as she continues.

"You had no thoughts about this paper, Alexis. It was not something you were thinking about, wondering about."

She drops the bill to the ground. Alexis, instinctively reaches down to pick it up. Elena places her foot atop the bill, stopping Alexis.

"You see, seconds ago this was nothing. It was a piece of paper, not worth your thought. Not worth your time. Now, however, this previously hidden piece of paper is far more than just a piece of paper. It is something that – once brought to light – raises eyebrows, raises heart rates," she adds, chuckling.

"It is not something that you would walk past and ignore. You trying to pick it up proves my point. It has become . . . unignorable. I know the word does not exist in English, no? But you understand my meaning."

Four sets of heads nod as her confirmation.

"What you are feeling now, little one, what you fear, what you worry about, what you struggle mightily with – it is like this one hundred dollar bill," she says, now reaching down and picking the bill up from the floor and handing it to the young woman.

"It was always inside you. Hidden. Not considered. Not thought about. However, once brought to light, once thrown to the ground – it is all you see. It is valuable. It must be acted upon. It must be dealt with. It must be . . ."

She smiles broadly.

"It must be put back, hidden once more. Or it must be dealt with. You are attempting to do the former. I want to help you do the latter."

With that, Elena walks back to the counter, retrieving her glass of orange juice. She takes a long swallow, draining the glass of the remaining contents.

"The one hundred dollar bill is what was in the wallet. When it emerged, it caused a reaction. The fact that you did not know that it was there before, Alexis, does not alter the fact that it was there all along. And it does not change its value. The juice is what is in the orange. When it emerges, it causes a reaction. We drink it."

She hands the bill back to Richard Castle, but continues to address his daughter.

"The fear that you feel, the constant nervousness," she continues, "as we discussed last night, little one - that is what has been inside of you all along. The protective cocoon your father has spun around you held firm for years, ensuring this fear never had reason to surface. Until now. Until life broke through his cocoon – and found you unprepared and defenseless."

Suddenly, Elena turns her attentions to Kate.

"This is true for all of us, yes? The alcoholic your father became was – in fact – always in him. Always looming beneath his surface. It simply needed the proper . . . motivation to emerge. And now he spends the rest of his life suppressing it, keeping it hidden, yes?"

Kate blindly nods her head, fully taken aback by the almost casual way that the woman discusses her father's affliction. For a moment, her defensive nature rises.

"And what of you, Elena?" Kate asks. "What was inside _you_? What emerged from you when life assaulted you?"

Elena's smile is dark as she responds.

"A killer." 


	5. Chapter 5

**Whisper: Chapter 5**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **Friday Morning, March 23, 2012 – 9:45 a.m. – at Richard Castle's Hamptons Home**_

" _A killer."_

Her last two words hang thickly in the air, and for a brief moment, time seems to stand still in Richard Castle's kitchen as Elena calmly throws the final small portion of biscuit into her mouth.

Kate knew she was baiting the woman, and she's not sure, right now, what exactly caused her to do so. All she knows is that – for whatever reason – hearing it directly from Elena's lips seems, as impossible as it sounds, all the more damning. And it doesn't make sense, because Kate has seen Elena's handiwork. Hell, Kate has been on the all-too vicious opposite end of Elena's handiwork, and that when the assassin was clearly holding back, toying with her. But for whatever reason, those two words have dug a hole in her psyche and settled.

She is about to say something when a loud crashing sound – the sound of a drinking glass falling through the still-stunned fingers of Martha Rodgers explodes on the tile floor. All four heads from the women, however, turn to the even-louder scream that escapes from Richard Castle's lips as he finds himself almost prone on the kitchen floor, his eyes wide with fear.

Seconds later, recognizing the crashing sound for what it was – just a broken glass on the floor – a highly embarrassed Richard Castle pulls himself off the floor, and dusts himself off, offering three sets of highly concerned eyes a sheepish grin.

"Just testing my reflexes there, ladies," he grins in embarrassment. "How'd I do?"

A fourth set of eyes, however, surveys him closely, sadly. Elena has been expecting this. In truth, she is surprised that it has taken this many days for this first evidence to surface. She saw – or rather – heard this evidence last night as she and her brother lay sleeping on his bedroom floor upstairs.

Already highly experienced with the concept of combat sleep, Elena had 'put' herself to sleep during the wee hours of the morning, forcing herself awake at three in the morning when she heard the first tell-tale sign she had dreaded. Then, she had pulled herself into a sitting position on the floor next to her brother, and for the next half hour or so, simply watched. She watched his breathing. She marveled at how he slept without moving. He didn't toss or turn. He didn't flail his arms. Except for breathing, he didn't move a muscle.

What he did do, however, was moan. Constantly. Incessantly. Low, dark and guttural moans. She could make out the words easily.

Pumpkin.

Sorry.

Help.

Stop.

Please.

Don't.

Her eyes had glistened with wetness, bathing her cheeks with solid streaks as she realized he was reliving the past month. She knows he is reliving his own personal horror show.

He sees, once again, his daughter being kidnapped, and he cannot save her. He knows – he has long figured out that it was only because it was a part of Scott Dunn's plan to let Alexis and Jenna go free that the girls were freed. Had that not been a part of Dunn's plan, Castle knows his daughter would have died. Probably horribly. And in the dream he is having, it takes on the worst-case scenario possible.

He sees the lifeless eyes of two 12th Precinct detectives staring back at him through their liquid graves. He sees – although it is impossible – in his dream he still sees the sniper's bullet coming toward him in slow motion. He wants to move, but he can't. He sees it inching through the air, ever closer, but his body is paralyzed with fear and cannot – will not - move. And so once again, the bullet finds it mark, knocking him backwards onto the steps of the courthouse.

He sees a beautiful woman on top of him, whispering words of encouragement, words of admiration, of friendship. Then her beautiful face morphs, and he is staring into the eyes of the stuff of horror movies, watching an evil and ugly face laugh at him while a pillow is smashed on his face. He moans, he begs, he pleads. But he cannot move.

Not an arm. Not a hand. Not a finger.

And so his pleas were nothing more than a paralyzed whisper in the air, left hanging and incomplete. For one of the few times in her adult life, Elena Markov felt helpless.

She placed a hand on his face as she sat watching him sleep, as she whispered soothing words hoping to drown out the soft moans that echoed through his room. When he finally stopped, when the sounds from his lips finally ceased, she, too ceased her caresses to his face. She had laid back down, and with greater difficulty than before, pushed herself back into the embrace of sleep.

So yes, Elena has been expecting this. Still, once it happens, it hurts. It hurts deeply. Richard Castle has known that he has a baby sister for less than two weeks.

Elena Markov, however, has known that she has an older brother for over a decade. Long had she wanted to meet Richard Castle before now. Learning that she had a brother had been one of the few truly happy days in Elena's younger life. It is why 'brother' is her favorite term, her favorite means of addressing Richard Castle. Many times she had insisted to Jackson Hunt that it was time for the two to meet. And each time, Hunt had fallen back on his training, on his standard – in her mind – copout answer.

" _It's too dangerous, Elena. My life, your life, they are not his life. It would be selfish to insert ourselves – and the danger that accompanies us constantly – into the lives of my son and my granddaughter."_

"Are you all right, brother?" she asks him, now next to him. He doesn't answer, however. He stands, collecting himself, trying to bring himself back completely into the present moment. Trying desperately to escape the flashback that she knows she is responsible for. She kneels on one knee on the ground, picking up large broken pieces. Seconds later, Kate is on the floor, kneeling next to her helping her pick up the damage as Martha rushes to the closet looking for a broom and dust pan.

"Was that what I think it was?" Kate asks the woman, her voice a whisper, all pretense of their previous temporary standoff brushed aside.

"You would know, would you not, detective?" Elena replies just as softly, catching Kate's eyes with her own. "You were expecting this also, yes?"

"I was hoping against hope that this wouldn't happen," Kate admits. And yes Elena is right. Kate knows all about post-trauma syndrome. She knows all about the flashbacks in the middle of the day, initiated by something as simple as popcorn popping, a glass falling, or a gunshot on television. And she knows all about the night terrors that visit as dreams.

"Perhaps the man that you see, the man that has helped you – perhaps he can help my brother as well," Elena replies, her voice matching Kate's.

"I'm not sure how possible that is, given I haven't seen Dr. Burke since . . . since . . ."

Kate's words hang in the air, as she pushes the grisly thoughts of Dr. Carter Burke's ordeal out of her mind. At least for now. Whether the good doctor is even an option for her anymore is anyone's guess. She visited Burke in the hospital twice, and has left messages, to which he has graciously replied. But as for patient-doctor relationships – she is understandably nervous about his willingness to jump back into the HMS Beckett. It doesn't matter. For now, the man in the kitchen is her top concern. And she, too, feels just as responsible for his condition, as she knows that Scott Dunn's crusade against her claimed many victims – including Richard Castle.

"Well, something to discuss, yes" Elena replies, gratefully accepting the dustpan from Martha as Kate stands and takes the brush from Castle's mother. Martha immediately moves toward her son, who is already being coddled by his daughter.

"I'm fine, I'm fine, pumpkin," Castle tells a concerned Alexis. The tears in his daughter's eyes haunt him, knowing they are tears for him.

" _She's been through enough on her own, already,"_ he thinks to himself _. "She doesn't need this heaped atop everything else she is dealing with."_

"Are you all right, Richard?" Martha asks, pulling herself into her son's embrace. "You have been through as much as anyone here."

"That's right, Dad," Alexis tells him, holding him tightly. "You have –"

"No, I haven't," he says firmly, turning and putting his hands on either side of the young girl's face. "You are the one who –"

"We all have suffered," Kate interrupts, drawing attention to her words, "Some of us more than others. The important thing is not to see who has suffered the most or the least. Somehow, all of us have been touched – harshly – in the past year, the past month, the past couple of weeks . . ."

She glances quickly at Elena, as she continues. "Some of us for a lifetime," she says, drawing an appreciative and surprised nod from the woman, clearly touched.

"And somehow – all of us have been brought here, drawn together at this particular time," she continues, "to your home," she says, looking directly at Castle.

"I don't think this – us being here together - is by coincidence, or happenstance," she says, recalling a distant conversation months ago with Dr. Burke. "I believe we are all here together to help one another. To be something that no one else can be for us."

Alexis listens and glances at the woman she now considers to be – accepts to be – her aunt. Elena had said similar words to her last night as they talked and worked on the beach in front of the house. What she feels for this woman is unreasonable – sure. She has known her for all of less than a couple of days, and somehow she feels an odd kinship with her. She knows of Elena's story, her upbringing. She has watched how her father has accepted this woman. She was watched the unbelievable trust that her father has shown this woman. He has allowed this woman to shoot him – trusting her to only wound him. She has heard how this woman climbed atop her father and simulated suffocating him – all in ruse of clearing his name. And she has watched her father's disappointment at losing his father a second time – and she has noticed his joy at his sister's decision to remain.

So, yeah, it is unreasonable, it doesn't make sense – but what in her life does make sense right now? Somehow she trusts this woman – deeply. And in her young mind, Kate is right. They are all here for a reason. It is no accident. They can each help themselves.

Kate chooses this moment to insert herself into the space just vacated by Martha, pulling Castle toward her. He glances down into her eyes, unsure of what he is seeing there. She clears it up quickly.

"I know what you are going through, Castle," she tells him. "I know – and I mean I know _exactly_ – how you feel. Let me help you. Please."

It's the 'please' that gets him - that catches his attention. It's not a word that he has heard often from the detective. At least not in this context. And certainly not aimed at him. He cannot deny her logic. If there is anyone in the room who gets what he is going through, who understands the fear that assaults him suddenly, without warning, time and again – it is Kate. He considers her words. An assassin who understands the journey his daughter now walks. A detective who understands the road he himself now travels. And a family matriarch whose very existence defines how one can deal with a lifetime of adversities.

Yeah, perhaps she is right. They _are_ all here for a reason. He pulls Kate into a soft embrace, but his eyes search out his sister, who stares at her brother with a knowing glance, nodding her head. She still doesn't trust the detective – not based upon everything she has heard from Jackson Hunt. But if nothing else, she has decided that Hunt has not always – let's say – been completely honest with her. She doesn't fault the man, it is his life, it is almost a necessity of the life he has chosen. But what she has seen – so far – from the detective has intrigued her. Enough so to give the detective some leeway.

In the back of her mind, however, is a nagging reminder of – again, according to Hunt – how richly, how deeply she has damaged her brother in the past.

No matter. She holds her hand out to his young daughter, beckoning her to draw closer. Alexis sees her and walks toward the newest family member of sorts. Elena takes her hand, and smiling, walks toward the back door leading to the sandy beach.

"Next lesson?" Alexis asks.

"Next lesson," Elena confirms, nodding her head as she opens the door and holds it open for her young pupil. "We have much to do, and very little time in which to do it."

 **A/N:** A few readers have commented that Alexis seems very much out of character from canon in this story. I could not agree more, as this is intentional. I think that getting kidnapped, assaulted – both physically and mentally – by a known serial killer, watching him kill, wondering how long you have to live – I just think that changes a person, or at the very least, draws out the fear in that person. In canon, I wondered how a seasoned professional like Kate Beckett could get shot and suffer deep PTSD, while a young woman of maybe 20 or 21 years who has been sheltered her entire life could get kidnapped, taken to Paris by people speaking a language she doesn't understand, knowing they are likely going to kill her – and this novice experiences no post-traumatic affects? I don't thinks so. And for those who don't know, PTSD is something that impacts a person who has undergone trauma, or who has simply witnessed that trauma to a loved one, or even a stranger. It is a vastly misunderstood disorder about which we are still learning much – and the notion that Alexis experienced none of this from her kidnapping in canon is just fluff to me.

So, in this story Alexis is reacting more like I think a young woman of 20 (or in this case, 18) would have reacted to the trauma imposed upon her by Scott Dunn. She's not making normal, reasonable, predictable decisions. Some of her decisions are going to be correct. Others aren't. All will have consequences.

Again – Happy Thanksgiving to all.


	6. Chapter 6

**Whisper: Chapter 6**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **Friday Morning, March 23, 2012 – 11:25 a.m. – at Richard Castle's Hamptons Home**_

Alexis uses the small hand towel that Elena Markov grabbed from the pool deck earlier on their way out to wipe the perspiration away from her face as she and Elena make their way back from the surf to the beach house. The uphill incline does nothing to tax either woman after their most recent session on the beach.

"You mentioned we have little time left," Alexis finally says, now broaching the one topic she has dutifully ignored during the past hour and a half.

"So that means you are still leaving in a few weeks," she continues. It is posed as a statement of fact, but the young woman means it as a question. As in, she hopes the answer has somehow changed from last night to this morning.

"Yes, little one," Elena replies. "I cannot stay. You know this."

"There has to be another way," Alexis counters.

"You know there is not," Elena replies again, softly. "You know this to be true, Alexis. My continued presence here is dangerous for you, dangerous for my brother – for your father."

"No - there has to be another way," Alexis repeats, stuck in her current train of thought. "You're a professional assassin, for crying out loud. You could protect us."

"For how long, little one?" Elena replies, just as softly. She knows the battle waging within the mind of the young redhead she has come to truly care for. She knows the hopeless feeling that oppresses her young mind. They have been through this – many times last night.

"I cannot stay indefinitely, Alexis," she continues as they edge closer to the massive home built along the beach. "Though I wish I could make this place my home, we both know that I cannot. My enemy, the enemy of your father, the enemy of the detective – this enemy – they are one and the same. But this enemy does not consider your father or the detective in the same vein as they view me."

"I know, Elena, but –"

"No buts, little one," Elena counters. "This enemy is annoyed by your father. This enemy is more than annoyed by the detective. But me? This enemy _hates_ me now. This enemy views them with contempt. They view me with _animosity_ , with _enmity_. And they know they cannot hurt me, physically. However, if they were to see me with you, to see me with your father – suddenly they have the means to hurt me – by hurting you. This I cannot allow."

"Elena, please . . ."

"Alexis, I will always be close by," Elena tells her, forcing herself to keep the surprising emotion out of her voice. "I will be watching over you."

"I don't want you watching over me," the younger woman mumbles, her voice breaking but now a bit of anger rising as well. "I want you with me. Teaching me. Helping me. Someday you will be gone and I will have to fend for myself. Three weeks is not enough time for me to –"

"You speak as if there are those who still hunt you, little one," Elena tells her. "Remember – that battle is over. That man has been vanquished. He will never hurt you again. You know this."

Alexis is silent for the next ten or twenty steps toward the house, and seconds later they find themselves at the large fence protecting the home. Alexis reaches forward to open the gate, when Elena's hand on her stops her.

"Tell me, Alexis," she asks the younger woman. "What is it that truly troubles you about my leaving? You know I cannot stay, you know the logic is unassailable. What is it that you are not saying?"

 _ **Minutes earlier, Poolside at Richard Castle's Hamptons Home**_

"They are on their way back," Kate tells him, tapping him gently on the arm. She and Richard Castle have been sitting on the elevated patio, overlooking the pool and the beach beyond for the past hour. They have been watching – mesmerized – by the intermittent sitting in the sand, morphing into soft yoga motions, which have turned into hardcore combat exercises that Elena has put his daughter through. Neither has spoken much – not of Castles oncoming PTSD battles, not of Kate's heartbreak over Roy Montgomery's betrayal. Instead, both have been focused on the scene playing out in front of them, some fifty yards away down the slope on the beach.

"They look so innocent," Kate muses aloud, and Castle merely grunts with a nod of his head. He watches his daughter's red chopped hair shine in the morning sun, while the golden blonde wig worn by his sister almost reflects the sunlight.

"That's the intent," he finally says. "They are supposed to look innocent. Elena was very clear – out in public, she cannot be recognized."

"She really believes Bracken is watching us?" Kate asks.

"She really believes it is a strong possibility now, but an unavoidable eventuality very soon," Castle replies.

"You would think that with an election less than eight months away, he would have more important fish to fry," Kate tells him, taking a sip from the glass of lemonade on the table between them.

"In a normal election year, you're probably right," Castle agrees. "But normal ended the other night when . . . when my father killed his parents. They associate my father with me – they know that he was protecting me. So now they have reason to wish ill of me beyond being my simply being associated with you. And then there's you . . ."

"And then there's me," she agrees. "He will always be at war with me."

"Because you will always be at war with him," he continues.

"Things certainly were a lot simpler last night at the bar," Kate muses sadly.

"Simple is boring," Castle chuckles, earning him feigned glare.

"When did this get so damn confusing?" she mutters under her breath, but still loud enough for him to hear and understand

"I suppose when Father showed up and sent Scott Dunn's fingers and threw the gauntlet down," he replies.

"Or when they realized they had lost control of their guided missile," she adds, bringing a chuckle from her companion.

"Or when their – what did you call her – their guided missile informed them that she was no longer at their disposal permanently," he comments as he takes a sip of lemonade himself.

They watch the two women approach, ever closer, from the beach. They are at the gate now when they notice Elena holding them back. She is saying something to Alexis, but they are too far away to make out what the conversation is about.

"It really isn't safe for her to be here, is it?" Kate asks. "Safe for us."

"No it isn't," he agrees. "But I don't want her to leave, Kate, God help me. She is good for Alexis. She is good for me."

"Having a baby sister suits you, Castle," she smiles.

"For as long as I have her," he replies, his smile sad.

 _ **Back at the gate leading to the pool at Richard Castle's Hamptons Home**_

"What do you mean?" Alexis asks, feigning ignorance. It does not work.

"Alexis – we have little time. You know this. Do not pretend. I cannot help you when you . . . decide to play games like this," Elena tells her, her sudden agitation enough to sway her companion.

"Look," Alexis begins as they both stand at the gate. "You're going to leave. She's going to stay," she says, pointing toward the house – literally – and Kate Beckett figuratively. "She's going to try to help, but she's going to hurt him. She won't mean to. And she doesn't think she will right now if you ask her. But she _will_ hurt him. It's just what she does. And I'm in no position to help him. I can barely sleep at night, I have these freaking waking nightmares, I have to figure out what the hell to do with school, I can't stay out forever. I graduate – or at least I am supposed to graduate – in less than three months. Then what? What do I do then?"

"You go to school, little one, as you have always planned to do."

"Are you not listening, Elena?" Alexis exclaims. "I can't leave him! Not now. Not with her. And we haven't even started with whatever the hell that was in the kitchen with him falling on the floor over a breaking glass! He doesn't seem to be in any better shape than me. And with you gone . . ."

A frustrated Alexis lets the thought hang in the air as she opens the gate and storms through, leaving a slightly stunned Elena Markov in her wake. She continues past her father and the detective who sit on the patio up against the wall of the home, themselves wondering what in the world has just happened.

"Pumpkin?"

"Not now, Dad," she tells him as she continues into the house.

Seconds later, Elena makes her way to the couple sitting on the patio. She glances indoors – as if she could see through walls – the frown painted across her face. She pulls a third chair up, and sits across from the couple, adjacent to Castle.

"What was that about?" he asks her. "Or do I even want to know?"

"She is . . . upset that I will be leaving next month," Elena replies.

There is a moment of silence as both Castle and Kate process the news. No, it isn't news that Elena will be leaving in a few weeks. When Elena told Castle that she would be staying, he knew that was not a permanent arrangement.

"Does she understand why?" Kate asks.

"She does not care why," Elena replies evenly, but cordially.

"You look good as a blonde," Castle smirks, nudging her thigh with his foot.

"Careful, brother. Men have lost body parts for less offences," she warns with a smile, but gets the withdrawn appendage, as desired.

"Do you think that . . . _that_ out there," Kate asks, pointing toward the beach, "is doing any good for Alexis?"

"She is making progress, yes," Elena replies.

"But what happens when you are gone?" Castle asks. "I mean, somehow, in a very short amount of time, she has come to trust you a great deal, and –"

"Have you not done the same, Richard?" Elena asks.

"Well, yes, but –"

Kate reaches across the small table separating their side by side chairs, giving his thigh a squeeze. The sudden contact startles him, stopping him in mid-sentence – which was her goal.

"I only asked, Elena, because it appears that you have made more progress in a day than Dr. Sumners was able to make in a couple of weeks," Kate begins. "I'm not sure that sending her back to the doctor will yield any different results after the time she spends with you."

"So what are you asking, detective?" Elena asks.

"I'm just wondering – out loud – whether or not there is a third door. A third option."

"Such as?" Elena asks, now a bit more curious.

"Well, we don't know that anyone is or is not watching right now. And so you have donned your little disguise here –"

"Cute disguise," Castle remarks, and is rewarded with a kick to the shin from the assassin as well as a punch on the thigh from the detective.

"Maybe a trial run," Kate suggests. "A test to see if a certain Senator would recognize you in disguise. I mean, that's your big concern, right? That somehow it will get back to Bracken that you are here? That somehow he will find out the . . . relationship between you and Castle, and take it out on Castle, or Alexis, or –"

"Or you, detective," Elena adds knowingly.

"Bracken already has a hard-on for me, Elena," Kate says dismissively. "He eventually will –"

"Will do nothing against you, or Richard, or Alexis, or Martha," Elena interrupts. "He will leave all of you alone because of Jackson. Because of the Stone. He has already seen what happens if Richard's father even suspects that he is planning something against my brother."

"But you think that he would forget all of that, forget his parent's death and come after us anyway if he suspects you and I are in cahoots?" Castle asks.

"Ca-what?" Elena asks, confused, and drawing a loud laugh from Kate.

"It means you are associated with Castle, you are working together," Kate explains.

"Then why did you not just say so," Elena queries her brother, again drawing a laugh from the detective, who is slowly warming up to the woman.

"Back to my question," Kate says, pulling the discussion back to her idea. "What if we just tried this out – put you in close proximity so that –"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa - are you really serious? Are you really suggesting," Castle asks with a look of disbelief and shaking his head, "that Elena get close to the Senator – _in that wig_ – to see if he recognizes her?" Castle considers for a moment that his sister's disguise is akin to Clark Kent fooling an entire planet with a pair of eyeglasses. He wisely keeps the comparison to himself, deciding anything is possible in a comic book.

"Do you have a better plan for keeping her around a little longer?" Kate asks.

Unknown to all, from her upstairs bedroom, through her open window, Alexis listens to the conversation downstairs below her on the patio, nodding her head slowly.

"Yes, detective," Alexis says softly to herself as she opens her laptop and enters in search parameters and hits ENTER.

"As a matter of fact, I have a much better plan," she says aloud, new determination in her eyes.


	7. Chapter 7

**Whisper: Chapter 7**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **Friday Afternoon, March 23, 2012 – 3:14 p.m. – along the beach near Richard Castle's Hamptons Home**_

They walk side by side, along the beach shoreline, the cold waters stinging their ankles and toes as they walk just inches in the surf. His hands are in his pockets. Three minutes ago she looped her left arm through his right arm, and she holds her hands, maintaining the contact. It was a move that surprised him, and they have been quiet since that moment – step by step.

She has begun to wonder if she has overstepped with her initiation – given his silence - but under no circumstances is she going to withdraw from the contact – not unless he desires it.

He, for his part, is wondering what is going on inside the head of the detective.

So much has happened in the past month – so much has been brought into the open. Lies, omissions of truth, murders, deceit, betrayals. And yet here they stand – or walk, rather – side by side, in closer emotional proximity to each other than ever before. It is a tenuous line, at best, that they walk, but for the first time since they met – they are walking it together, more or less. Not in any romantic sense, no. No, this walk is far more important, far more intimate.

There is more honesty in the silence between them than four years of words and innuendo and hinting have ever produced. It is a silence that – over a month ago – would have been highly uncomfortable. It is the kind of silence that shrieks of nails on a chalkboard.

This afternoon? This silence is almost tangibly comforting. They both unconsciously relax into the moment with each step.

But silence visits for only so long before it eventually cracks.

"You're really worried, aren't you?" she finally asks, breaking the quiet comfort that has followed them, settled upon them.

"Yes," he replies. She realizes that he's still back there, three or four steps ago in the surf.

They walk a few more steps before she tries it again, this time from a slightly different angle.

"Is it Elena leaving that worries you, or is it how Alexis will handle things after she is gone that you are worried about?"

"Yes," he replies again, and she senses that he is not being evasive, or dismissive. He is deeper in thought than she has ever seen him. She tightens her grip on his arm, and smiles inwardly when he reciprocates the motion.

" _Okay, third time will be the charm,"_ she thinks to herself as she considers yet a different approach. They walk a few more steps, arms tightly entwined.

"Are you worried that . . . are you concerned that Elena might take Alexis with her?" she finally asks, getting the words out. She feels him tighten – and not in a positive way – at the suggestion. She isn't sure whether or not she has hit pay-dirt, or has inadvertently given him yet one more horrible alternative to contemplate. He doesn't wait long to give her the answer.

"No . . . no, I don't think so," he finally says after a few more steps. "To be honest, I really hadn't considered that."

" _Stupid, stupid . . ."_ Kate chastises herself silently.

"The only reason Alexis is still even here, Kate," he continues, "is because Elena wouldn't let my father take her. I don't think her reasoning was to keep her _from him_ just so that she could have her for herself. I think . . . well, I am hoping that her motivation was to keep my daughter with me."

"That does make more sense," Kate agrees, allowing her hips to sway into his for emphasis. "That's more how you would write it, right?"

"Yeah, I guess," he replies.

" _Wow, he really is out of it – a writer analogy always works,"_ she thinks. She is still no closer to what is really worrying him. Fortunately, she has – in fact – awakened him.

"Actually, no," he tells her. He stops in his tracks, and looks at her for a couple of seconds, holding her gaze before half turning, and looking out into the sea.

"I wouldn't write it like this," he tells her, while still gazing out past the waters. "It's the quagmire trap. A no-win proposition. That never ends well, in writing. There always has to be an avenue to a happy ending – there has to be that possibility, otherwise it is not worth the journey in the first place for the reader."

"Well, this could still work out, Castle," she tells him, contemplating the options in her mind.

"No," he argues, "this is the classic lose-lose situation. That's what has me worried. I see no path for a satisfactory solution."

She begins to open her mouth to speak, but catches herself. She believes there is a way, she really does. She doesn't have it on the tip of her tongue yet, though, and so she holds that thought. It doesn't matter, as he is now engaged in the conversation. And unfortunately, he is making a lot of sense. Too much sense, in fact.

"Elena stays," he begins. "Eventually she is discovered. They will come for her. _He_ will come for her."

"Bracken," Kate states in a matter-of-fact tone.

"Bracken," he agrees. "And when he comes for her, she will defend herself."

"Of course she will," Kate says, nodding her head once. "And she will have no problems defending herself against –"

"My father," he interrupts. "My father will side with Bracken. He made that very clear. Bracken in the White House is his priority. Period. If she goes against Bracken, he will fight her. And I suspect these two do not produce wounding blows. Their solutions tend to me more permanent in nature."

She is quiet, now considering the sound logic that Castle proposes to her. She is muddling this through her head when he continues.

"At that time, Elena is in the proverbial lose-lose quagmire," he continues. "She kills him, and she kills my father . . . her father. That's not acceptable. He kills her, and he kills my sister, and he alienates not only me, but his granddaughter."

"That's why he left!" Kate exclaims suddenly, withdrawing her arm from his. He immediately notices the emptiness and is disappointed to realize that he is disappointed.

Lose-Lose.

She is right, though. That's the thinking that has dominated his mindset for the past twenty-four hours.

"That's my thought as well," he agrees. "He knew that staying here likely meant accelerating what is probably an inevitable conflict between my father and my sister."

" _Possibly_ an inevitable conflict, Castle," Kate corrects. "Possibly."

"Depends on your viewpoint, my detective," he tells her, and she feels a slight tingle at his possessive description.

"If Elena attacks Bracken, my father comes into play," he says.

"And if Elena is only defending herself, your father still comes into play," Kate muses aloud.

"And if Elena leaves, then Alexis takes a huge step backward," Castle continues. "How those two have become so . . . so familiar in just a couple of days is beyond me. But I'm not blind – neither are you. We both see their connection."

"Elena is the baby sister you never had, Castle," Kate tells him. "That can explain your instant connection to Elena."

"Yeah, I agree, but I'm talking about –"

"And – follow me for a moment – Alexis may be the baby sister that Elena never had. Half-aunt and niece may be the official relationship description between the two of them. But if you look at them – I mean both of them – a sisterly relationship is really what I see developing there. Elena is someone that Alexis, as an only child, has never had. A big sister. And Alexis is the little sister that a loner like Elena never had. They both are filling a void for each other."

"Which is why Elena hasn't just up and left already, along with my father," Castle muses aloud.

"No, I think that is both Alexis and you, Castle," she argues. "I think that she is here for both of you. But right now all of our focus is on Alexis –"

'Rightly so," he interjects.

"True," she agrees, "and so you're right . . . Elena is stuck in the quagmire you describe."

"She leaves, and she loses someone very important to her –" Castle states, lifting his forefinger as if counting off.

"Two people," Kate corrects. "Don't forget about yourself."

"Okay, she leaves and she loses two people, and two people lose out because of her absence," he continues.

"But if she stays," Kate continues, now holding up two fingers herself, "then she risks her life or the life of her father – _your_ father – both scenarios are losing propositions for you and Alexis."

Castle begins walking again, and Kate immediately falls in step with him. They walk silently for ten steps, then twenty, before he nudges her with his elbow. She glances over at him and notices that he has opened up his arm for her. She smiles softly, interlocking her arm with his as they continue walking.

"There is always a third option, Castle," she tells him after another twenty steps of silence. "There is always a third door that presents itself."

"That's my worry, Kate," he tells her, and she warms to his usage of her first name. The warming is chilled immediately by his next words.

"I'm just afraid that Alexis is going to find that third option, that third door before we do," he tells her. "And when she does, I don't think she will wait to ask questions, or look for advice."

"She will take the leap," Kate agrees, nodding her head.

"That rarely works out well," Castle sighs.

"And that's what is really bothering you," Kate says, now understanding his dilemma. "But what could she do, Castle? I mean, really, what could she do that would hurt herself, or you, or Elena or any of us."

"See, Beckett," he smiles, now reverting back to her last name. "That is spoken like a person with no experience with an eighteen year old who thinks like every eighteen year old."

Kate laughs at herself as she tightens her grip on his arm.

"Alexis has always had a good head on her shoulders, Castle," Kate begins. "You've said it yourself, she has always made good decisions . . . unlike someone else, who will remain nameless," she says with a laugh.

"That was before her – how did Elena describe it – carefully designed protective cocoon burst, and failed her," he says, ignoring her ribbing. "She's different now, Kate. You can see it, I can see it. But she's still only eighteen. And she thinks she knows everything, just like any other eighteen year old. She thinks she is older than she really is."

Kate is about to speak again when his next question silences her.

"Tell me, detective, was there anything _you_ didn't know when you were eighteen, nineteen, twenty years old?"

"Life changed for me about that time, Castle," she says darkly.

"As it has for Alexis, Kate," he tells her softly, and after a couple of seconds he feels her murmur her agreement. "And how did that turn out for you? A decades long quest, a single-minded focus and everything and everyone around you be damned. And now my daughter has been touched by life – just as you were –"

"Far worse than I was," Kate corrects him.

"Far, far worse," he agrees. "And you wonder why I worry? Why I worry that the one person who seems to be getting through to her cannot stay? Why I worry that if that one person _does_ stay, then eventually someone I care for is going to die. And die brutally."

They walk a few more steps. Kate suddenly but slowly leans into him, putting her head on his shoulder as they walk. He tightens their arm grip a bit more.

"A lose-lose proposition," she mutters sadly, and she kicks the water in frustration as they walk. Another ten steps. Then fifteen. Then twenty.

"We have to find that third door before she does," he tells her, then stops their walk, turns them around and they begin to make their way back to the beach house, now a good mile and a half away.


	8. Chapter 8

**Whisper: Chapter 8**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 **A/N:** Here are some thoughts about post trauma stress disorder (PTSD) to consider before tackling this chapter – just to give us a glimpse into the turmoil that is the mind of Alexis Castle right now.

 _When in danger, it's natural to feel afraid. This fear triggers many split-second changes in the body to prepare to defend against the danger or to avoid it. This "fight-or-flight" response is a healthy reaction meant to protect a person from harm. But in post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD),_ _this reaction is changed or damaged_ _. People who have PTSD may feel stressed or frightened even when they're no longer in danger._

 _PTSD develops after a terrifying ordeal that involved physical harm or the threat of physical harm. The person who develops PTSD may have been the one who was harmed, the harm may have happened to a loved one, or the person may have witnessed a harmful event that happened to loved ones or strangers._

 _from the National Institute of Mental Health_

 _ **Friday Afternoon, March 23, 2012 – 3:44 p.m. – at Richard Castle's Hamptons Home**_

Sitting in her bedroom, alone, there are a myriad of thoughts scrolling through Alexis Castle's head. The most dominant is a continuous running nightmare of Scott Dunn. Right now, Alexis lives in fear. No, rather, she lives with fear.

No – the more accurate description is that fear lives with her.

Fear has taken up residence in her heart, in her conscious and sub-conscious thoughts. Her ordeal has caused her to respond in extraordinary – and not in a good sense – ways. The fears which assault her are many. They are – in no particular order.

One, Jackson Hunt. The man was going to take her away.

Yes, she had quickly grown fond of the man. She loved the idea that she had a grandfather. More than that, she loved the decisive manner in which he had taken care of her captor – giving her a closure there that she would have been unable to give herself.

It turns out, though, that she is still miles from closure on that topic. What he gave her was revenge, and a very temporary reprieve from the waking nightmare that her life has become. Still, she was grateful. At least up until the point where she realized that his plan was to take her away.

Away from her father.

And so now she lives with the fear that this dangerous man will return. He will return and make good on his original intent, and she will never see her family again. He will take her away to some undisclosed location and train her, mold her. He will turn her into . . . Elena. A killing machine.

She doesn't necessarily mind that last piece, because truth be told, she is still very, very angry. The anger comes on her suddenly, and she doesn't know how to fight it off, how to internalize it. And because she does not know what to do with it, because all she knows right now is how to be afraid – the anger manifests itself in an even deeper, darker fear.

And this is just one fear of many.

Another is Scott Dunn. Yes, Dunn is dead. Alexis knows he is dead. She has seen the evidence, first-hand. More than that, she has seen the consequences of his death – her dad imprisoned, her dad shot, followed by a second attempt on his life. All of this played out in vibrant color on network television. Yes, she knows he is dead. The problem is, when she closes her eyes at night, when sleep overtakes her, he is very much alive. And he is angry.

As she falls asleep, the color world recesses, replaced by a black and white nightmare. His voice, with that haunting cadence, whispers to her in her sleep. He makes threats. He touches her. He laughs at her, and tells her he will never let her go. She smells his breath on her, she feels his hands on her. But the worst part?

The worst part is she hears the terrified screams of Jenna Shaw. In her dreams, as she did in life, she places herself between the serial murderer and the younger girl. The glances he gives the younger girl frighten even Alexis – it is her first face-to-face interaction with a potential murderous pedophile.

"Don't you think I am pretty?" Alexis asks the man, batting her eyes at him as seductively as she can manage in her current state of fear. "Don't you want me?"

Of course, Dunn didn't want Alexis. He wanted Jenna. And he didn't like 'settling' for less than what he desired. He rewarded Alexis with a shorter haircut, a butch job. His attempt to make her appear younger. Her long red hair chopped off to satisfy the whims of a very sick and dangerous man. Still, it works. She saves young Jenna, in her dreams, just as she did in real life. Which leads to her other fear. Probably the most dominant one.

Her father.

What will he do if he finds out? How will he react if he ever were to learn what young Alexis went through, what she did in order to keep Jenna safe. He has enough on his plate already. He can never find out. Ever. But for Alexis, nothing can wash those memories away. Certainly not the sessions with Dr. Sumners. In fact, all the doctor has become for Alexis is another fear.

Seeing the doctor was a mistake. The doctor is keeping records of their sessions. She has to – it's her job. Which means at some point, all of Alexis' fears, all of her issues, everything she is dealing with will become documentation. And documentation eventually grows a life of its own, and becomes public.

Documentation will prevent her from doing something important, or having something important later in her life. Documentation will be used to show that she is unfit, she is not qualified. She is damaged goods.

It's an unreasonable concern, but again, Alexis is of an unreasonable mind.

And then there is Kate Beckett.

Kate is going to hurt her dad. She knows it, there is no doubt about it in her mind. Her dad is already hurting right now. It is one of life's harsh ironies that Alexis can readily see the symptoms of PTSD in her father, but miss them entirely in herself.

She knows – or at least she strongly believes with her every fiber – that the only reason that Kate is even here, the only reason that he even allows her here is because he is making odd decisions simply because of what he has been through. He has been deceived, betrayed, framed, shot, suffocated. On top of that, he has to deal with the . . . the . . . he has to deal with what the bastard Dunn did to her. At least as much as he has been told.

Kate is wiggling her way into a family she no longer deserves. And he is allowing this. Learning that – all along – Kate had heard her father's grass confession and ignored it has been the ultimate betrayal for Alexis – one that she is not in forgive and forget mode about.

And finally there is her aunt. The assassin. Elena.

Elena Markov is the wildcard. Elena is the universe's answer to all of the fears, the pains, the hurts – and the unanswered questions that haunt Alexis. And it is just like the fickle universe to bring this answer to Alexis only to rip it away.

Elena is that one thing that Alexis has always wanted. A sister. Be it big sister or baby sister, it doesn't matter. Whether she was in school as a youngster or on the playgrounds – wherever – it wasn't the lack of a mother that stung Alexis. Meredith came around just enough to create a great comfort and gratitude inside Alexis that it was just she and her dad, and her Grams from time to time. No, it wasn't the lack of a mother that hurt. For Alexis, it was watching young friends play with their siblings. Watching them go home with their siblings. Watching them be taunted by, teased by, protected by their siblings. If there has been one thing that Alexis has coveted, it has been a sister. And now she has one. It doesn't matter that officially Elena is her aunt. Step aunt. Half aunt. Whatever. What matters is that the two walk together, they sit cross-legged on her bed. They laugh, they fight, they dream. All of this in just two days. And just as quickly, the woman will be gone.

Then what? Where does that leave the younger Castle then? She can't talk to her dad. She doesn't trust the detective. And she can't give any more fodder to the shrink that will ultimately find its way to the surface at the worst moment possible.

The ringing from her iPhone startles her, granting a reprieve from the torrent of thoughts that come at her in waves. She glances down at her iPhone and sees the small face associated with the incoming call. She smiles – one of her few genuine smiles now. She hits ANSWER to the Facetime call.

"Hello Jenna, how are you, baby girl?" she asks, the long-lost sparkle in her eye returning ever so briefly.

"Hi Alexis," Jenna replies with her own smile.

"And?" Alexis asks, with a broad smile. "How are you today?"

"I'm okay, I guess. Mommy slept with me last night. That was much better."

"I'm sure it was, Jenna. Did you ask her about coming here?" Alexis asks.

"She said maybe next weekend," Jenna tells her happily. "I think I am going to school next week."

"That will be fun, Jenna. You will get to see all of your friends again. Won't that be nice?" Alexis asks her. Jenna is quiet for a few seconds before responding.

"I . . . I guess," Jenna replies. "Some of my friends ask questions. Their mommies ask questions. I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything, Jenna," Alexis tells the young girl, frustrated and angry with what she knows the younger girl is experiencing.

"You just tell them you don't want to talk about it," Alexis reminds her. "It's none of their business. You don't have to talk about anything if you don't want to."

"I know," Jenna replies, and she smiles softly. "I hope I get to see you next weekend," she says, changing the subject.

"Oh, we will have lots of fun, Jenna," Alexis tells her. "We live on the beach, so you and I can walk the beach anytime you want. We can find beautiful sea shells and put them in a glass jar. We can swim in our pool and play Marco Polo –"

"Ooh, that would be fun," Jenna tells her.

For the next few minutes, the two girls are lost in their only little make-believe world of what they might do with one another next weekend – if they can get the Shaws to bring young Jenna back to the east coast. Alexis glances out her window and sees her father and Kate returning. She sees their arms interlocked together, and she frowns.

"Jenna, I'm sorry," she tells the younger girl, "but I need to run. Dad is back and we have to run a couple of errands. But I will call you back tonight, I promise, okay sweetie?"

"Okay Alexis," Jenna tells her. "Call me tonight – promise?"

"I promise, baby girl."

Jenna smiles and tells her goodbye. Seconds later, Alexis has hung up the call, and tossed her phone across toward the foot of her bed as she watches the couple walk up to the gate and enter into the patio area.

"She's going to hurt him," Alexis muses to herself. "She's going to hurt him bad."

 **A/N:** A hard chapter, I know. I apologize. I just need to establish Alexis' frame of mind, so that her coming actions are better understood. I've received a lot of notes with people expressing their concerns about what the young Castle is planning. Trust me, it is nothing so draconian as people fear – but it is a game-changer in this AU that sets up some very interesting stories, starting with the next one. Cryptic, I admit.


	9. Chapter 9

**Whisper: Chapter 9**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **Friday Afternoon, March 23, 2012 – 5:47 p.m. – at Richard Castle's Hamptons Home**_

Kate Beckett stands in the kitchen with Martha Rodgers, her efforts now filling the room with a new distinct aroma. She had suggested – after their beach walk – to Castle that he find some time and space to himself in his den with his laptop. She knows the stress he is under, and the concerns that he now lives with.

"Rick," she had begun, and the use of his first name – a rarity for her – had caught his full attention. "Go, escape," she had told him. "Go, do what you need to do. Go to that place where your imagination takes over, creating wonderful worlds. You need this."

It sounded kind of cheesy, sure, when she had said it. But she spoke the words honestly, she spoke the words from one who has sat down and entered into the worlds that Castle creates, and used that time to escape, herself, from the brutality of her own mother's murder. She is fully aware of the impact escaping into his world had on her own journey through hell.

Yes, Kate Beckett knows the power of the words, and the worlds that Richard Castle is capable of creating.

So for the past couple of hours, Richard Castle has been in the den, doing God knows what. She doesn't know if he is writing, researching – hell, he could be taking a nap for all she knows. It doesn't matter. He needs the downtime, and she wants him to have it. She has promised dinner for them, which had generated a raised eyebrow from the writer.

"Um, Kate . . . I am not sure we have a Chinese takeout close by," he had ribbed her. Okay, half-ribbed with a half-truth. His honesty had been rewarded with a poke to the ribs, and an abrupt dismissal to his room . . . or den, rather.

Now, the kitchen is warm, the air light, and the conversation between the detective and the matriarch is breezy, brimming with optimism at what could be. Kate continues to marvel at how quickly things can turn in life, and offers a silent prayer for a continuation of the unusual peace she is feeling.

Without warning, the author and owner of the home steps into kitchen, breathing deeply and smiling broadly.

"Okay, detective, I apologize," he begins. "This smells absolutely wonderful."

"How do you know I am not the chef, the creator of this delectable dish, Richard?" his mother muses in her typical sing-song manner.

"Mother . . . please," Castle dismisses with a smile and a wave of his hand. He walks up behind Kate, his hands in his pockets, barefoot, leaning his head over her shoulders as she glances down at the skillet in front of her – the skillet and its contents which are the cause of the atmosphere in his kitchen.

"No joke, Beckett, this smells delicious," he tells her, and then his eyes are drawn to the iPad tablet on the counter in the corner. He takes a few steps toward the corner and picks the tablet up from the counter.

"The Iliad?" he muses aloud. "Didn't know you read Homer, Beckett."

"Not mine, Castle," she tells him as she stirs the sauce and meat concoction slowly as the creation simmers atop the flame.

"Alexis left it there, before she took off with Elena," Kate continues. "They are back out on the beach."

"Another session?" he asks.

"I believe so," she replies. "They have been out there for about ten, fifteen minutes tops."

"Hmm," he mutters, as he glances out of the large window toward the beach beyond. He can't see well enough, so he moves toward the great room, which is elevated by three steps above the rest of the first floor area. Now he can see out to the waters, his eyes scanning until he sees them. He smiles as he sees the two women, standing on the sand. His thoughts are those of gratitude – he is truly grateful for his sister here today. She is doing wonders for his daughter. His thoughts move toward her imminent departure, but he forces those thoughts away.

" _For now, she is here,"_ he thinks to himself with a smile. The smile freezes on his face and quickly turns downward into a deep frown as he watches the scene play out on the beach. Without warning, his daughter has fallen to her knees in front of the older woman. He sees her kiss Elena's hands. He sees her lift her head, her face upward toward Elena. She's saying something now. Seconds later, she – still on her knees – bends and hugs the thigh of Elena's right leg. She drops and . . . it looks like she is hugging the woman's leg.

Castle glances back toward the kitchen at the tablet he has left on the island counter. He glances back out the window at the beach scene. Suddenly, his eyes widen in understanding – and disbelief.

"Alexis! Nooo!" he screams, as he suddenly rushes out of the room through the French doors leading out to the patio and out to the beach.

"Castle?" Kate exclaims in surprise, as she watches him sprint – literally, she has never seen him move this quickly – out to the beach beyond.

"Martha, watch the food," she says quickly, then offering a quick "please," as she runs out the door, taking off after him.

 _ **At the same time, out on the beach behind Richard Castle's Hamptons Home**_

Alexis and Elena have just begun their session – maybe ten minutes ago. The younger woman has been listening to her aunt invoke ancient Greek thoughts and concepts, learned from her real, biological father as a child. She repeats some of the more memorable phrases that her father spoke, that her mother repeated.

She has considered this for the past couple of days, since the thought first hit her. She had read about this in the Odyssey, and in the Iliad. She had never really understood it, never seen it as possible, or even relevant in any fashion.

Now, she wonders if the only reason she even paid attention during their studies of Greek mythology in school was for this moment right here.

She needs for Elena to stay. She needs for Elena to continue her new role in her life. She needs for Elena to protect her, to protect her father, her grandmother. The last month has taught her that life can change in a moment, in a twinkling of the eye. And sometimes one needs a champion, a protector. That's what the Greeks believed.

That's what Alexis believes now. Her own name – the name _Alexis_ – means 'defender' in the Greek language. She can't become that defender without help. The universe has brought Elena here to help her become her namesake. She cannot – she _will_ not – allow the fickle universe to change its mind, and yank that gift away.

She knows that Elena will leave, and she will be alone. Yes, Dad will be there, she knows. But Dad does not understand. How could he? He's never been kidnapped. He's never been in her shoes. It's not his fault. Elena Markov, however, understands.

Elena understands what it is like to be brutalized by a man. She understands the helplessness, the anger, the humiliation. And she's going to be leaving.

Alexis apologizes to the Elena as she falls to her knees before the beautiful and surprised European woman. She knows exactly what this will mean for her, for Elena.

And for _both_ of their fathers.

She reaches out and grabs both of Elena's hands in her own, and kisses each hand softly. The emotion of the moment begins to overtake her, and the salty tears that are already streaming down her face quickly bathe the hands of Elena Markov.

"I am Alexis Rodgers from Manhattan," she begins, still on her knees and clasping the hands of the woman above her.

"I am the daughter of Richard Castle, your brother," she continues, as Elena continues to stare below at her in confusion.

"I kiss the hands of the woman sent to me. Before God and his universe, who watches over both masters and supplicants, I beg for your mercy and I offer myself in supplication."

Full realization hits Elena Markov, and her knees buckle. Alexis releases her hands and drops further toward the ground, firmly grasping Elena's thighs, both in support of herself as well as the woman above.

"Alexis, No!" Elena screams down at the young woman, to no avail. Alexis continues the ritual, holding tightly onto Elena's thighs. The assassin knows what this means. She knows this could kill the budding relationship she fervently desires with her brother before it has a chance to bloom.

"I come to you without protection. I come to you without means, without honor, without hope," Alexis tells her, as she places a kiss on the front of Elena's right thigh. Elena is crying now, hot tears washing down her face, as she tries – in vain – to push the younger woman away.

"No, Alexis, you don't understand what you are asking!" she pleads with the younger woman.

"I come to you with nothing but myself to beg you for your protection," Alexis continues, holding on all the more tightly, her eyes squeezed shut.

"I beg for your power. I beg for your pardon," she continues, her voice breaking, and now drops further down the leg of the woman, now grasping her calves, as she bends even lower, placing a kiss on Elena's right foot.

"Shelter me in your shadow, as the Almighty shelters you, and in your shadow I will serve," Alexis tells her, and then places a kiss on the older woman's left foot, wetting it with her tears.

"Your breath gives me breathe," she tells Elena, who now has lifted her own head toward the heavens with a loud scream.

"Your words give me words," she continues, as she hears her own father's voice, screaming, as he runs full speed in the sand towards her from the house, with Kate Beckett only steps behind him and gaining.

"I live at your mercy, and I beg you in the name of God to accept my supplication," she says, completing the ancient ritual, and only now releasing the feet and legs of the woman above her.

"Oh, child," Elena begins, as she gazes downward, stroking the short, red strands of hair along Alexis' face. "Oh, Alexis."

Castle finally reaches the pair and falls down onto the sand, next to his daughter. He winces in pain from the wound in his shoulder, still tender after only a few days. He looks up with pleading eyes toward his sister. She knows the question he is asking with those eyes, and the tears that fall from her own give him his answer.

"Oh, God, no," he all but whimpers, as Kate rushes up behind him. She surveys the scene in front of her. He is crying. Alexis is crying. Elena is crying.

"What have you done?" Kate asks the younger Castle, and there is just a hint – only a hint – of threat in her voice. It is unintentional. But it is there nevertheless. And because of the now-completed ritual, it demands a response.

In a flash – Castle will later realize he never saw the weapon materialize – Elena reaches behind her shoulder and retrieves a small sword – the blade is roughly twelve to fourteen inches in length. One second it was not there. The next, it is pointed with a straight and extended arm at the neck of a now very quiet and very still Kate Beckett. Kate follows her gaze from the glint of the weapon, up the arm that wields it, and into the blazing eyes of a warrior.

She falls backward into the sand in total confusion. For Castle, however, it is apparent what has happened.

Elena is now his daughter's protector. It is a duty she cannot refuse. He knows enough of the mythology, and it frightens him.

"Oh, pumpkin," he sobs as he holds onto his daughter's shoulders, as she falls back into her dad's embrace, both of them kneeling in the sand, beneath the mentor-now-turned-warrior.

 **A/N:** The Hiketeia is an ancient Greek ritual where a supplicant places themselves under the protection of another more powerful person. It cannot be casually dismissed or rejected, and once accepted, the supplicant must then be protected at all costs, or everyone involved with suffer the full wrath of the universe. Although it is a largely forgotten ritual, it has staggering implications in Greek lore. The most well-known hiketeias occur in Homer's Iliad, where Thetis petitions Zeus to bring honor to her son, Achilles, after Agamemnon has disgraced the warrior in front of his troops. The second, more successful hiketeia was performed by King Priam of Troy, to Achilles after the death of his son, Hector, at the hand of Achilles who had dragged the dead warrior from the city gates to the Greek camp miles away. Achilles relented and gave King Priam his son's remains, with the promise of protection as he made his way through the Greek camp, returning to the city.

While Elena has no plans or purpose to whisk young Alexis away, the younger woman's plan has succeeded, now giving the assassin a strong reason – and duty – to stay with her new family – a decision which will have huge ramifications down the road.

As always, thanks for reading. We have one, maybe two more chapters before heading on to the next story in this AU.


	10. Chapter 10

**Whisper: Chapter 10**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 **A/N:** Based upon some of the PM's I have received, I probably need to expand the description of the hiketeia. The hiketeia – although steeped in Greek mythology – was not exclusively a religious ritual. Although there are supplications made to the Greek gods of mythology, often those ended badly in poems and prose. However, the more interesting (and successful) supplications were made from one human being to another. There is nothing mystical, nothing supernatural about the hiketeia. It is simply a deep, bonding, protective arrangement, or agreement, that favors someone who is in a weaker position. The ramifications, however, can be staggering. Again, although the name of Zeus was often invoked by the Greeks (just as Alexis invokes the name of God), this is not a religious arrangement. Consider the swearing in of a witness in the American court of law. That swearing in (which invokes the bible and the name of God) does not make that a religious event, or action. In the same way, hiketeia is not religious, per se. This is all about honor and duty and oversight.

Okay, that's out of the way. I hope this clears things up for all of us. On to the story . . .

 _ **Friday Afternoon, March 23, 2012 – 6:01 p.m. – at the beach at Richard Castle's Hamptons Home**_

Kate Beckett stares at the knife – no, forget that, this isn't a knife. It's a small sword of some type. And it is still pointed at her. Granted, when she fell backwards, startled by the sudden appearance of the weapon, Elena has made no move toward her. The move, in fact, was not an offensive move. It was simply a defensive gesture, as the assassin felt a threatening tone in Kate's words. Not towards her, mind you, but towards the younger Castle.

Towards Alexis.

"Elena?" Richard Castle says, questioningly, glancing up at his sister as he continues to hold his daughter in the sand.

"Do not approach her with malice," Elena warns, looking directly at Kate.

"What?" Kate exclaims, totally confused now. Evidently Castle is aware of what just transpired here, but Kate is still in the dark. Elena clears it up for her. Sort of.

"Hiketeia has been performed, and accepted," Elena tells both Castle and Kate. "Although, I suspect, brother, that you have already figured this much out, yes?"

"Yes," Castle replies solemnly. "What does this mean now, Elena?"

"Hiketeia?" Kate asks. "Okay, I admit to being in the dark on this one. And what's with the mini samurai sword, Elena?"

"You know what it means, Richard," Elena tells him, ignoring Kate's questions. "It means that Alexis is now under my protection. It is my duty to ensure her safety."

"It is also _her_ duty to do whatever you ask of her," Castle interjects. "Why . . . why would you allow her to become your –"

"Because hiketeia cannot be flippantly refused, brother," Elena interrupts. "It is an honor to receive a supplication."

"I know this, I know," Castle replies quickly, now releasing Alexis and pulling himself to his feet. He now stands next to Elena. "My question is, do you understand the bigger ramifications of this? This could easily put you in direct conflict with our father."

"True," she tells him, stunning him with her simplicity.

"And you are okay with that?"

"It no longer matters what I am okay with, Richard," she replies. "Hiketeia has been performed and accepted."

"You keep saying that," Kate tells her. "It can't be as simple as that."

"On the contrary, detective," Elena replies in a dark voice, "it is precisely as simple as that. Hiketeia is about honor. Something that you – evidently – know very little about."

Chastised, Kate holds her tongue with a retort, as Elena turns her attention back to her brother.

"Hiketeia about honor, and honor is simple, my brother," she tells him. "No, it is not _easy_. What in life is? But it is simple. It is straightforward. Protection has been requested. The request has been accepted. It is that simple. Honor makes it that simple."

"But –" Castle argues, to no avail.

"Richard, less than five minutes ago, you and I share a bond forged by a tenuous relationship with our father. That makes us brothers and sisters," Elena says, now slowly sheathing her sword back in its place on her back, behind her shoulder.

"Alexis changed that. Because of hiketeia, she and I now share a bond forged by honor, by duty. Those elements are stronger than a blood relationship, brother. Those elements – now shared with your daughter, are also shared with you. Whatever harms her, harms you, and whoever harms you, harms her. So I am bound now to you both."

"I do not want you _bound_ to me, Elena!" he thunders, angrily. "I never wanted you _bound_ to me. I simply wanted . . ."

He pauses, staring out to the ocean waters.

"You wanted what, Richard?" Elena asks.

"I just . . . I was enjoying having a sister," he tells her. "I don't want a protector. I just accept you as my sister," he tells her, warming the woman once again.

"And you have that," she tells him softly. "But you also have more now, and I accept that. Gladly. Happily. Do you not see, Richard, how beautiful it is for me to protect one as noble as yourself? As noble as your daughter, who – I suspect – was acting not only for herself but also for the father she loves?"

Castle stares down at Alexis, who still sits kneeling in the sand, the tears coming slower now, but still coming nonetheless. He reaches down, picking her up by the shoulders and immediately winces in pain. Kate steps in quickly, and pulls the younger woman to her feet, brushing the sand off her clothing and leg.

"Are you all right, Alexis?" Kate asks.

"I'm . . . I'm fine, Kate," Alexis tells her, then looks toward her father. "Dad?" she asks questioningly. As with many actions, it is only now that she starts fully considering the full potential ramifications of her request.

"It's okay, pumpkin," he begins, but is cut off by Elena.

"We should move indoors," she tells the group. "We have much to discuss, given Alexis' decision."

With that, Elena begins walking toward the house, grabbing the idle hand of Alexis Castle as she passes, pulling the younger Castle along behind her. Castle offers Kate a glance and a shrug of the shoulders, and both fall in line behind the departing women, heading back to the house. Once inside the house, Elena releases Alexis' hand, and walks directly into the den. She goes straight for the liquor cabinet on the wall, and retrieves a bottle of Absolut vodka. She drops four ice cubes from the cylinder into her small glass. She gazes at the clear bottle and bright blue lettering for a moment, before pouring a few of ounces into a small tumbler. She puts the bottle away and grabs a small can of cranberry juice and pops the top. She adds a few ounces to the tumbler, and takes two long swallows.

Inhaling in a hissing fashion between her teeth, she closes her eyes for a brief instant, then opens them, to find the deepest blue eyes of her brother staring back at her. He takes the tumbler from her hands and finishes the drink himself, putting the now empty glass back on the small countertop.

Elena moves to the large chair, and sits – folding her legs in crisscross fashion in front of her. She closes her eyes, as Castle moves to the small sofa and sits. He will give her the space she needs. She seems just as surprised by Alexis' actions as he is, and so he realizes that his new sister probably needs a few minutes to process what has just happened, and what it means. Kate walks through the door, but Castle puts his forefinger up to his mouth in a vertical fashion, indicating she should keep quiet. He then pats the space on the sofa next to him, indicating she should sit. She complies with both requests.

For the next few minutes, all are quiet. Kate and Castle sit next to one another, not saying a word, while Elena sits alone, eyes closed. Finally, she exhales a large breath and opens her eyes, turning her head toward the couple on the sofa.

"That was unexpected," she says, her voice low.

"I'm sorry, Elena," Castle tells her.

"Don't be, Richard," she replies. "It is not your fault.

"Then whose fault is it?" he exclaims. "I should have seen this coming. I should have –"

"Really, Richard?" Elena argues. "You should have seen hiketeia coming? You should have seen an ancient Greek ritual of honor that probably only a handful of Americans have even heard of, much less understand? That's what you should have anticipated after your daughter's ordeal? Please, brother, do not bother," she tells him with a dismissive wave of the hand.

"Your daughter is damaged, she is hurting," Elena continues. "But she is also brilliant.

"How so?" Castles asks.

"Because so few no about this ritual," Elena replies, "it follows that Alexis knew very little as well. Which means in the past couple of days, she has done her research."

He smacks his forehead with his open palm, his mind taking him back now to a secretive girl upstairs closing her laptop, not allowing her father even a random glimpse of what she was looking at on the computer.

"It means that by the time she fell into the sand before me, Alexis knew exactly what she was doing," Elena tells them. "She knew that she and her father need protection, whether he admits it or not," she concludes, glancing at her brother.

"Protection from who?" Kate asks. The Brackens – for now – are taken care of, thanks to Castle's father. Roy Montgomery – may he rot in hell – is dead, so he's not a threat.

"Protection from the many enemies that my brother has made because of you, detective," Elena tells her evenly. "Enemies that not only attack him, but they attack his daughter, his mother. Protection from you, detective."

The words are a cold slap in the face for Detective Kate Beckett. The past couple of years now come rushing back to her, replaying in her mind in vivid color.

She sees Castle at gunpoint, being held by Dick Coonan, in the precinct . . .

She sees Castle being threatened – again at gunpoint – upstairs in an old building in the middle of a card game with dangerous Russians . . .

She sees herself nestled into Castle's arms, both freezing to death in an abandoned freezer . . .

She sees him diving – too late – to knock her out of a bullet's path, no concern for himself . . .

And she realizes that none of these events – not one – would have occurred for him were it not for her. Had he not known her, been drawn into her world, he would – right now – be writing his next novel, safe and sound, no worries in the world, save dealing with a growing teenager and two ex-wives.

But he would be safe.

Then the next words from the assassin beat her senseless.

"I wonder, detective," Elena continues, "if you have found your courage, or whether you are still a coward?"

"What?" Castle exclaims, bristling at the notion of cowardice from Kate Beckett. "Now wait a minute, Elena, that's not –"

"Will you pick up and run yet again, detective, because life does not suit you?" Elena challenges. "I can see it in your eyes already – the easy answer for you is always to run. My brother needs you now, probably more than ever. I am wondering, detective . . . will you run, or will you be here for him, as he has been for you countless times."

"That's not –" Castle begins again, only to be deflected yet again.

"I am talking about honor, Richard, I am talking about the heart," his sister tells him. "I am not talking about your physical safety. I am speaking of your broken heart, your broken dreams, how every time you need the detective most, she has chosen someone else, something else . . ."

He grows quiet, and his silence is damning to the detective, who feels her eyes glistening. Fortunately, Elena removes the knife.

"That, however, is not our biggest concern now," Elena says, changing topics quickly. "Our top concern is protecting my brother and his family from the attack that _will_ come, sooner or later."

"I don't understand," Kate comments. "Bracken isn't going to do anything right now. Who else is there?"

"Leave the Brackens to me," Elena tells them both, a plan already formulating in her mind. Yes, this could work. And it could keep Hunt out of the picture.

"They are not my top concern right now," Elena continues. "For now, my question is –"

"Smith!" Castle shouts suddenly, drawing a nod from his sister.

"What about Smith?" Kate asks, and then as the question escapes her lips, the greater truth hits her.

"Oh," Kate exclaims quietly. "Shit."

"Yes, detective," Elena comments softly.

Castle and Elena now consider the elusive and mysterious Mr. Smith, considering the likelihood that this old friend of Roy Montgomery could possibly have been left out of the ruse. Kate, however, has no such illusions.

"I didn't even think . . ."she mutters to herself. "Smith knew everything," she continues. "He knew about Roy, he knew about Bracken . . ."

"Damn," Castle grumbles under his breath.

"Did you ever meet him?" Elena asks, her voice hopeful.

"No, dammit," Kate mutters again, kicking herself mentally.

"And I didn't get a good look in the dark parking garage," Castle sadly adds.

"So, there is an unknown player who none of us can identify, who knows each of you and knows neither of you can recognize him," Elena tells them.

"He doesn't know of you?" Kate asks.

"Oh, he knows of me, of that I am sure," Elena tells her. "But does he know me, face-to-face? No," she comments, and then smiling darkly, adds, "Not yet."


	11. Chapter 11

**Whisper: Chapter 11**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **Friday Evening, March 23, 2012 – 8:25 p.m. – at the beach at Richard Castle's Hamptons Home**_

She sits alone in her room, staring out her window out to the waters some eighty to one hundred yards in the distance. Night has settled in, and so the ocean has – once again as it does every evening – morphed from the deep blue, beautiful fun to the more respectful, dark and forbidding mystery. She has been alone here for the past hour and a half. She had half expected – no she had _wanted_ – feedback of some kind for her actions. She knows that the people downstairs are – well, what exactly are they?

Angry? Perhaps.

Disappointed? Oh, yeah, for certain.

Stunned? Ditto.

What sounded like such a sound strategy for the past twenty-four plus hours now – once put into motion – seems iffy at best, and selfish to a fault. But who can blame her? Who understands what she has gone through? Who understands what her father has gone through? And of all the millions of people the universe could have brought into their lives right now, that one in a million lottery draw gives them Elena Markov?

Isn't that fate?

" _No,"_ she thinks to herself, _"I did the right thing,"_ she convinces herself. That is until she hears the knock on the door that she has been waiting for – only it has come roughly an hour later than anticipated.

"Come in," she yells toward the door, wondering if it is the father or the aunt who has chosen to blast her for her choice.

She is both elated and disappointed to see Richard Castle walk in the door. She is glad to see her dad. She knows she owes him an explanation, big-time. But she was also kind of hoping that the finger-pointing, I'm-so-disappointed-in-you talk wasn't going to come from her father.

He walks quietly toward her empty bed, a few feet away from where she sits, on the bean bag she has moved over to the window. She can't make out the expression on his face, which only compounds her anxiety.

"Listen, dad, I-" she begins, but he holds a single finger up to postpone whatever soliloquy she had rehearsed.

"Before you say another word," he tells her, "I want to tell you something." He brushes two hands through his hair as an expression of . . . someone being at the end of his rope. And given what her father has been through for the past two weeks, that's saying a hell of a lot.

"You and I have always promised each other – no secrets," he tells her, and she feels the emotions beginning to rise inside her, as her eyes suddenly become misty, her vision blurring.

"Now, having said that, I admit that not everything I have done over the past couple of weeks has been on the up-and-up," he continues, "so I cannot in all good conscience really hold that against you."

He rubs his face and eyes, and only now does Alexis Castle really, truly see her father – for the first time in weeks. He is tired. No – he is exhausted, and he looks like hell. A hell whose flames she has just fanned.

"And I can't decide if what you have done out there is the most selfish, self-centered, least thought-out boneheaded move you have ever made – the kind of decision I would never have seen from my baby girl," he tells her, as a single tear rushes down her cheek.

"Or, if this is the most selfless, brilliant and courageous, I'm-at-the-end-of my-rope decision you have made for yourself . . . and for me," he concludes.

"Dad," she begins, trying in earnest to start her defense. But that damn single finger squashes her second attempt.

"Not yet, Alexis," he tells her, and she is struck by the simplicity of him using her first name. No 'pumpkin', no 'sweetheart', no 'baby girl'. Yeah, the status quo has changed.

"For the sake of our relationship . . . because I love you so darn much . . . because up to this point you have never given me reason to doubt or seriously second-guess you . . . because you have spent the last eighteen years building up a bank account of trust . . . I'm going to go with the latter thinking."

The tears flow freely now for the teenager. She is months away from graduating – maybe – and leaving – maybe – and in the midst of what anyone in their right mind could consider her biggest blunder, here sits her father, throwing her a life preserver simply because of the trust they have built.

Trust she has built.

Trust that she easily could have shattered a couple of hours ago – but evidently didn't.

"That said, however," he continues, "this does change things."

His eyes narrow, and while she doesn't see anger there, while she sees the love that has always shone from those eyes . . . she sees something else there as well. Something that – all of the sudden – her eighteen years on earth are woefully inadequate to decipher.

"You are no longer a little girl," he tells her, "and it has nothing to do with your age. Rather, it has everything to do with your _coming_ of age. That's what happened downstairs. A coming of age, a fork in the road. You have made a decision, and I accept that. I'm not sure how much choice I have in the matter, but whatever. You've made your choice. And that choice – on one hand – is selfless to a fault. On the other hand, it is damning to a point."

He stands and walks toward her, to the window. She moves over on the oversized bean bag, giving him room to sit with her. He chooses to stand, staring out the window.

"I'm not sure you understand what all of this means," he tells her, "but once again, I'm going to give you the benefit of doubt, and assume that you do. This changes . . . Alexis, this changes everything."

He stares down at her now, and she still struggles to identify exactly what this is that she sees in his eyes.

"Elena is bound to you now," he tells her. "Not by her own choice. Not by her affection for you. She is bound by _your_ choice. She is bound by honor. I am _positive_ that you fully understand what honor means to her," he says. "It also means that you are bound to her, Alexis. Remember your words to her, remember your _promise_ to her, your _oath._ "

He places his hand on her shoulder for emphasis. She still cannot place what shouts at her behind his eyes.

"Her breath gives you breath. Her words give you words. You live at _her mercy_. That's quite a latitude of trust to give to an assassin you have known for all of forty-eight hours or so. And she is an assassin who we know only what she has shared, and what my father has shared. And what my father has shared with us is suspect at best."

He walks toward the door, stunning her as he leaves.

" _That's it?"_ she thinks. _"I don't get to say a word, nothing to explain myself, nothing in my own defense?"_ she wonders, becoming slightly irritated. And that's when he drops the bomb that blows up their unique relationship.

"I know you want to explain yourself, Alexis," he tells her. Yeah, he knows her so well.

"But Princess, it just doesn't matter," he tells her as he opens her door to leave. "Not anymore. We no longer have time to debate and discuss why. We have a journey to walk out now, and I don't know how long this road is, where it will take us, or how long it will take."

He glances down, holding the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb. He looks back up at her, and her wide blue eyes almost break his heart.

Almost.

"And I don't know how many casualties we are going to have to live with along this road," he continues. "All I know is that you're my daughter, and I love you. And I will be with you the entire way, every step of the way . . . for as far as the road will allow me to go."

The door shuts behind him, leaving a tearful young woman confused and more alone than ever.

"What in the world did he mean by ' _as far as the road will allow me to go?_ '" she wonders aloud, the volume of the second-guessing of herself now screaming at a frightening level. Suddenly she understands that look in his eyes. Suddenly she recognizes that expression in his eyes. It was an expression that – up until now – he had reserved solely for Detective Kate Beckett. The realization drops her sobbing to the ground.

It was a look of resignation.

 _ **Minutes Later, Downstairs at Castle's Hampton's Beach Home**_

Richard Castle walks down the stairs to the first floor level, still deep in thought. Leaving Alexis' room, he had gone to his own master bedroom, into the bathroom to wash his face. As if he could actually wash away the stain that this evening has become. He found himself staring in the mirror, staring at a stranger who now looks older, more haggard, less sure of himself.

Less sure of everything.

" _Buck up, old man,"_ he had told himself, as he wiped the water from his face with a hand towel, and offered three or four quick brushes to his hair, before tossing his hair brush away in frustration.

He reaches the bottom step when he sees Kate. She has her purse on her shoulder. She's leaving. Yeah, he should have seen this coming, too.

"What's up?" he asks.

"I'm sorry, Castle," she begins. "I just got a call from the precinct. There was a bomb. It exploded this afternoon at a downtown Manhattan plaza, during a protest rally."

Okay, that is unexpected, but it makes sense that she would have to leave for this, Captain Gates' promise of time-off notwithstanding.

"Five people are dead, and scores are injured," Kate tells him. "And the Feds are running the case. Jordan is flying back in."

"Jordan?" he asks. "Why in the world do they need Jordan?"

It's a good question. Special Agent Jordan Shaw, FBI profiler, deals with psychos. She deals with that unexplainable, serial element that cannot be understood. He smirks, mocking himself as it dawns on him that perhaps someone detonating a bomb in the plaza fits that bill.

"Captain Gates asked for her personally," Kate continues, as if reading his mind, and seeing his surprised look.

"Yeah, surprised me, too. But then again, after the last month, with Dunn, and the assault on the Brackens, on his parents, with everything that happened to you, to . . . to all of us . . . I guess they aren't taking chances. Right now they want the NYPD to handle witness and family interviews – nothing else. We are hoping Jordan can change that."

"I understand," he tells her, but she cuts him off.

"Aren't you coming?" she asks, only now realizing the very real possibility that he might decline. Yeah, so much has happened, and the first time a new case has arisen, she has just assumed he would fall back into place, by her side. She nervously bites her lip, now realizing that is probably not going to happen.

He doesn't make her wait long.

"No," he begins. "I am going to . . . I have to stay here," he tells her, with a glance upstairs.

"No, no, I understand Rick," she tells him, moving quickly towards him, surprising him with a long, affectionate hug. "I understand. I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking I –"

"That is entirely too much apologizing," he tells her, pushing her away so he can look her in the eyes.

"I have so much to apologize for," she rebuts. He doesn't disagree.

"That's true," he admits. "But not now, and not over this." He takes her hands in his and smiles softly.

"You know where I live," he says. "And you know the door is always open for you. I will let you decide what to do with that."

He glances around, purposefully breaking the moment. He can't do this right now.

"Where's Elena?" he asks.

"I'm not sure," she tells him. "She took off about twenty minutes ago – said she would be back tomorrow afternoon."

His raised eyebrows mirror what she is feeling right now.

"Well, that can't be good," he muses aloud.


	12. Chapter 12

**Whisper: Chapter 12**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **Epilogue: Saturday Morning, March 24, 2012 – 7:37 a.m. – at the Washington, D.C. Home of Senator William Bracken**_

Elizabeth Bracken sits on the terrace in the backyard. She sips her morning coffee, up early on this Saturday morning. She always beats Will out of bed on weekends. It is her personal time, her time to think, to review, to contemplate, to plan.

The past week has been – for certain – a personal disaster, but also a political and public triumph. Her plans for her husband and the presidency could not be moving forward more beautifully. Yes, it has cost him dearly. His parents are gone. She loved his parents dearly. But nothing is free, and the universe has decided that they have outlived their usefulness, and taken them away. She accepts this without hesitation or regret. Compartmentalizing has always – always – been her primary strength.

It is what allows her to be magnanimous in one moment, then murderously ruthless when necessary. Two sides of the same coin.

" _It's nothing personal,"_ she has often said – both to herself and the henchman she has selected to carry out some of her more 'permanent' solutions.

She knows her husband will – in time – get over it. Bombing their house was brutal, sure, but also quick. She knows they didn't suffer.

Compartmentalizing.

She also knows that she and Will have both suffered personally as well. She gingerly fingers the still swollen and tender scar that runs along, underneath her jawline.

"Scarf my ass, bitch," she thinks to herself. "I will proudly wear this, allowing everyone to see your handiwork," recalling how the assassin inferred that the punishment she was administering would – ultimately – bear good fruit for the Senator and his wife. She feels the stitches, and for a moment, fights down a bout of anger that threatens to rise. She closes her eyes, thinking about the scar now a permanent fixture down her husband's cheek.

And somehow, she sees that damn detective behind it all.

Yes, Sheila Elizabeth Bracken will secretly be keeping tabs on one Kate Beckett. There is something sticking in the back of her mind, a horrible itch she cannot reach. It refuses to crystalize, but it refuses to disappear as well.

She continues to wonder what caused a truly loyal friend and confidante to her husband such as Elena Markov to betray him. Yes, she considers it a betrayal, whether the woman was misinformed or not. She knows that the assassin is far more intelligent than your typical hitman. She knows the woman is too smart to think so simplistically as to believe Will would play her so callously. No, something happened. Or, rather, someone.

She has no proof, of course, but she believes with her every fiber than somehow, the detective is behind it. Of course, she believes Kate is behind _every_ problem her husband runs into. It's his damn obsession with the detective. Why he hasn't just allowed her – or Elena – to eliminate the nuisance, why he seems so damn honor bound to stick to some ill-advised agreement to keep her alive is beyond Mrs. Bracken.

All she knows now is that her days of sitting aside allowing him this leniency are over. The Stone be damned, she's going to make Beckett pay. For Will's parents. For their scars. For losing Elena. And if the Stone really, really wanted either she or her husband dead . . . well, she wouldn't be sitting here sipping on her coffee with Amaretto creamer, now, would she?

Of this she is absolutely positive. Somehow, his threats aside, his posturing aside, it occurs to her that the menacing Stone might actually want her husband to ascend to the throne. Taking out his parents instead of him? It just doesn't make sense, unless he was trying to send a message to someone. And that someone can't be Will, because the Stone had already delivered his message to Will days earlier, in the form of the finger digits of one Scott Dunn.

She shakes her head, trying to piece these disparate pieces together as she blows the top of her hot coffee, ready to take another sip. She stares down at the digital photograph in her hand. It is a photograph of one Jackson Hunt. No, she doesn't know him by that name – she doesn't recognize the man. But this photo was captured as he turned on the ignition of Will's limo on that fateful night that Will's parents met their maker.

In a turn of tremendous irony, one of the security measures that Elena had recommended to Will was to implement a means of tracking his limo in the event that someone either stole or hijacked the heavy vehicle . . . and his wife. The hidden camera had captured the image of Hunt. She doesn't know who he is, but now she knows who to look for.

It's more than they had a week ago. She takes a long sip, smiling, deciding that the death of the elder Brackens was easily worth the image she now holds in her hands.

Compartmentalizing.

"The universe decides," she says aloud, another of her signature catchphrases that she takes to heart. Literally.

Her cell phone rings, and she glances down at the number. It's his second, stashed cell phone he is using to reach her. The one he uses only for their 'business'.

"Hello, my Mr. Smith," she greets him with a chuckle, which he returns in kind.

" _Your_ Mr. Smith?" he smiles. "So possessive, Mrs. Bracken," he laughs, but there is no mirth in his voice. On to business.

"You wanted to know the whereabouts of the detective," he begins.

"Yes, yes," she replies quickly.

"She's out in the Hamptons," he responds, and lets his answer hang in the air. He enjoys their little games.

"With _him_?" Sheila finally asks.

"With him," he acknowledges.

"And you came to know this how?" she asks, taking another sip of coffee. It is unusually good this morning.

"Gates, of course," he replies.

"The captain is turning out to be very useful, indeed, Clay."

"Victoria is the best kind of plant," Captain Clayton Russell agrees. The fifty-two year old Russell is a thirty-year vet on the NYPD force, and for the last seven years he has headed up Internal Affairs, where one Victoria Gates used to work under him.

"The kind that doesn't know she's a plant," he continues. "The kind that just does her job, and by doing so, gives us everything we need."

"And Gates has told you that the detective is out in the Hamptons with her writer?" Sheila confirms. She has to make sure – has to get this right.

"Yeah, been there for a couple of days, I believe, until last night," he tells her.

"What happened last night?" Bracken asks. "I'd think the two lovebirds would have wanted to celebrate their weekend."

"I'm not so sure they are lovebirds, and I don't think Castle has much to celebrate," he replies. "He's been shot, damn near suffocated, his little girl was kidnapped and God only knows what she went through," he continues. "I'd damn near say the detective is as much bad luck for him as she is for you."

"It has nothing to do with luck," Senator Bracken's wife replies. "It's her . . . her karma. It breeds on her, and attaches itself to anyone she interacts with for too long – be they friend or foe."

Smith is once again taken aback with the Senator's wife's utter hatred for Kate Beckett. He finds it unusual, unreasonable. After all, it was Sheila who originally ordered the hit on Kate Beckett's mom. Had she not done that, then Beckett is just some two-bit cop who never even enters the Bracken's orbit.

"Anyway, Gates called her back in for the bombing investigation," he tells her.

"Bombing?" she asks.

"Back here in the city," he explains. "Would have thought it would have made the evening news last night in D.C."

"The Senator and I . . . have not seen much television in the past twenty four hours," Bracken explains, and Clayton Russell, nee Smith decides that the less he knows about that, the better. He has worked for the Brackens for the past fifteen years, - a failsafe put into place by the Senator back in the day, just in case things ever went sour with Roy Montgomery. And no, he isn't buying her ignorance of a bomb blast in New York City. If there is anything that the D.C. power couple do religiously, it is absorb media.

"I understand," he replies. "Just understand, the Feds are coming in on this one," he tells her. Her silence tells him all he needs to know.

"Let me know if I can be of service, Mrs. Bracken," he says as a way of signing off.

"Always, Mr. Smith," she chuckles, drawing a concluding laugh from the IA captain as they both terminate the call together.

She sits for a few more minutes, enjoying the morning songs that bathe their backyard in soft ambience. She smiles, all things considered, still completely satisfied with her life. Their life. Finally standing, she makes her way inside, and heads back to the bedroom where she will rouse her sleeping husband.

Opening the door, she gasps as she sees her husband sitting up in the bed, his mouth taped shut, his hands tied in front of him, and his chest tied to the bed post behind him.

Wide-eyed, she immediately scans the room, quickly left and right, looking for his assailant, but his muffled noises and vigorous head shaking let her know that whoever has done this is gone.

She quickly makes her way over to him, and immediately notices the tape extends from one side of his face, over his mouth, to the other side. There is no way she can remove the tape without damaging the stitches put there five days ago. Stiches for the slash from Elena Markov. She frowns, pursing her lips. He nods his head vigorously, anger in his eyes, telling her to get on with it.

In one quick motion, she rips the tape off, closing her eyes momentarily against the violent scream of pain and anger her husband releases.

Seconds later, she reopens her eyes, and begins working on his bindings.

"What in the hell –" she begins, but doesn't need to finish the question.

"Elena," he spits out, tears burning his eyes against his own will as the blood now pours from his re-opened wound on the cheek.

"What?" she asks, incredulously. "Here? How?"

"Not important," he says dismissively. "She paid me a visit. Paid _us_ a visit. Said she actually slept in our guestroom last night, the ballsy bitch!"

Sheila is taken aback by the Senator's tone, as he has always referred to the assassin in more reverential tones. Even with all that has happened, in the past few days her husband has been annoyingly defensive of his former pet assassin. She is secretly glad to see his anger rise against Markov. She is frightened, however, at the notion that – once again – Elena Markov is proving to both of them that she can move freely at will in their world – in their own house, dammit – completely undetected.

"She said she wanted to wait until you went for your morning coffee, so that she and I could talk in private," he continues, noting her look of alarm. "Yeah, I caught that, too. She knows your patterns as well as mine."

He rings his now free hands together, rubbing life back into them as she unties the knot from the bed post. He watches the drops of blood begin to pool on his lap.

"She told me – and I quote – _'Richard Castle and his family are off limits'"_ , he tells her, drawing a raised eyebrow from his wife.

"Told me – and again I quote – _'your issues with the detective are between you and the detective.'_ She was very clear about you and I not allowing Richard Castle to get in the crosshairs of our little . . . feud with Detective Beckett. _And_ said she is going to be sticking around, keeping an eye on things."

"Will," Sheila interjects. "This makes no sense – at all. Why in the world would a world-class assassin give a shit about a stupid –"

"Because, Sheila," he tells her, holding her gaze firmly in his, "he is her brother."

Sheila Bracken's jaw-dropping expression is priceless for the Senator, and under different circumstances, he would find it wildly entertaining. As it is, however, it simply mimics what he is feeling right now. He can tell that lost puzzle pieces are now starting to fall into place in his wife's mind as well.

"She's his sister, Sheila. She's his damn sister."

 **A/N:** So – this finishes this set-up tale for the next phase in this AU, with lines drawn tenuously in the sand, with alliances teetering and a few new players introduced.

From a family perspective, Castle's once tightknit crew is – while not fractured – definitely far more tentative in their walk together. The ramifications of Alexis' decision will have major undertones in future stories, as you can expect, as we will discover exactly what 'protection at all costs' means to an assassin bound by honor. And the Brackens – while in the midst of an election year – aren't going to take the past week lying down. It's just not in their nature. And we will learn a lot more about Mr. Smith, who takes on a much more villainous turn in this AU, as did his good friend, Roy Montgomery.

And best of all for me – some of Season 4's latter episodes, starting with the bombing in the plaza, can now take on a very different arc, and the 'Always' that Castle and Beckett search for could eventually be much stronger and, therefore, less susceptible to the horror that was Season 5. My humble opinion, of course

I will be moving forward with this AU again next year – let's remember that these are imperfect characters.

I love the Elena character, and I have written her to have a strict code and culture of honor. But let's not kid ourselves, she is a vicious killer.

I love Kate Beckett, but I realize she is a self-absorbed, singularly focused loner who craves companionships that can be compartmentalized. That way she doesn't have to commit completely.

I love Richard Castle, but realize that he is a serial self-deprecating doormat whose optimistic outlook doesn't allow for even considering worst-case scenarios.

And then there is Alexis – a good girl, with good intentions who is scared of her nightmares while sleeping only to have worse daydreams. How she has reacted can be debated – but the die has been cast.

All of these characters can change – can learn, can become better. Whether they actually do or not? Hehehe…well, that's the story isn't it?

As always, thanks to everyone who reads, follows, favorites and reviews my writings. And I love our PM exchanges – such fantastic ideas often come from those. Whether you like the stories or not, you humble me, and honor me. Thank you.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to everyone. I hope all of you have a great holiday season.

Continue to pray for France. The holidays – for many, many, many people, will not be the same this year, or for a long time.

God bless you all, richly and greatly.

 _Aalon_


End file.
